John Whump One-Shots
by rosetyler39
Summary: Are you a fan of hurt!John fics? Ever wondered "There's not enough out there!"? Well, look no further. These are one-shots specifically focused on John whump. Each one-shot is recommended by YOU, the reader. Ideas can be submitted via review or PM. The decision is yours: How will John Watson get hurt this time? (P.S. I am not a smut-writer. So... yeah. Just so you know.)
1. Down the Stairs

**Hello sweeties! I figured since I write so much John whump, I should just devote an entire story to it. So... yeah. Here you go.**

* * *

John hissed as he rolled his wounded should around, fruitlessly trying to make the aching stop. Rainy days always seemed to have this sort of effect on him. As he walked through the door to the flat, he looked down at the ground and frowned at the puddle of rainwater that had gathered there and seemed to trail away down the hall and up the steps.

_Sherlock._

God they needed a doormat. But then again, Sherlock would still refuse to use it.

Rolling his eyes at the mere thought, John massaged his shoulder as he ascended the wet stairs, making sure to hold onto the railing. As he reached the landing, he heard a crash upstairs followed by loud thumps.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath.

Another crash.

"Sherlock!" John yelled up the stairs.

More stomping.

John began to bolt up the steps, the dread of what he would come home to negating the importance of the ache in his shoulder or the puddles on the stairs.

At least until he managed to slip in one of the puddles.

"Sherl-" was all he could manage to get out before he felt his shoe lose traction on the step, sending him flying down.

He felt his tailbone hit first, then his head on the railing, then the rest of him impacting harshly with each step as he rolled right back down to the landing, his back hitting the back wall with a loud thud.

And then he felt the ache again.

He groaned as he flopped onto his stomach, trying to blink away the sharp throbbing in his head.

_Potential concussion. Nothing broken; merely bruised. Aggravated ache in shoulder. Tailbone will hurt like a bitch._

His medical brain fired off diagnoses quicker than a sniper would bullets. Perhaps that was the reason his head would not stop throbbing. Or perhaps it was the railing. Or maybe the loud clanging about coming from…

John realized it had gone silent. He then heard the sound of the door creaking as it was cracked open.

"John?" he heard that deep baritone voice call.

John moaned in response. It must have been this that caused the door to almost fly off its hinges, because Sherlock was down the stairs in a flash, rolling John over and checking for his vitals. John cringed as the detective's cold fingers grasped his hand and felt around for a pulse.

"Talk to me, John. Can you hear me? What hurts? Are you nauseous? Is anything broken? Are you bleeding? Do you need an ambulance?" Sherlock's voice sounded oddly concerned. "Are you alive, John? Answer me!"

John blinked against the light that shone above him, wincing at how bright it was.

"Sherlock, I'm fine," he said as he closed his eyes once more, trying to block out the immense throbbing. "Just a bit bruised. And I may have a minor concussion. Look can you just… can you help me upstairs?"

Without hesitation, Sherlock wrapped John's arm around his shoulder, earning a small groan from the doctor.

"John? Are you sure you're all right?"

John nodded and swallowed, biting back the pain he felt in his shoulder.

"It's just- oh Jesus that hurts- it's just my shoulder. The fall just aggravated it a bit."

Sherlock nodded and shifted his own body, trying his best to make John a bit more comfortable as he aided him up the steps. As he helped John into the flat, the doctor gasped sharply, his blood beginning to boil as he looked around the flat.

"Christ, Sherlock! What in the hell did you do?!" He winced as his own voice reverberated off of the walls.

The flat was an absolute mess. Some dishes lay broken on the tile, books had been thrown to the floor, the end table and its contents lay toppled over; it was enough to make John want to throat-punch the man who was currently supporting his weight.

"Sherlock, why?" John said with an exasperated sigh.

God the flat was a mess.

"You know what? I don't care. Just sit me down on the couch, please."

Sherlock did as he was told and gently lowered John onto the couch. John sucked in a small amount of air as his tailbone hit the cushion.

_Okay, BADLY bruised._

From the look on Sherlock's face, John could tell the man had most likely deduced the situation. John gave a bit of a chuckle.

"Well, it's obvious you're bored. So why don't you go ahead and relay your deductions to me? Tell me what's wrong with me so you can take a break from toppling over furniture and be of some help."

Sherlock cleared his throat a bit bashfully and looked down at his feet.

"I, erm… that, uh… that tailbone looks a bit painful to sit on. Do you want me to… you know…?"

"Ice it? I can do that myself, thanks. Just retrieve the ice for me and straighten the flat up. Thanks."

John closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

"And a bucket, if you wouldn't mind. Preferably one without one of your damned experiments in it. I might be sick."

Sherlock nodded and quickly gathered up the needed supplies. John's eyes were still closed when he returned, worrying him just the slightest bit.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, shaking John's shoulders.

"Wha..? Oh, sorry. Geez, can you dim the lights a bit? Holy shit," John said as he held his hand against his head.

Sherlock immediately ran over to the light switch and flicked it off, replacing the harsh light with a dim glow from the lamp positioned next to the couch.

John let out a deep breath which he had been holding and gratefully took the ice and the bucket.

"Thanks. That's better."

Sherlock still stood at John's feet.

"I'm really alright now, Sherlock. You can go ahead and start straightening up."

Sherlock shook his head.

"I think not. The flat isn't top priority now."

"I'm alright on my own."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Are you certain a hospital isn't necessary?"

John nodded emphatically, trying to suppress the nausea that followed. He failed, subsequently vomiting into the bucket. Sherlock watched uncomfortably as John ceased the awful retching and wiped his lips.

"Oh, yes. That's reassuring," Sherlock said with as much sarcasm as he could possibly muster.

John glared at him.

"I'll be fine. I just shouldn't have shaken my head like that. Just, ah… okay. Alright. Let me just…" John adjusted himself carefully so that he was on his stomach, placing the bucket down beside him on the floor. "…okay then. Sherlock, would you mind turning around?" John said, the bag of ice hovering close to his buttocks. "Please? I kind of need to ice my ass."

Sherlock cocked his head slightly.

"Technically your tailbone. And anyway, I hardly see why that's your main concern, my seeing only a small portion of your buttocks."

John blushed a deep shade of red.

"Just turn around!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pivoted on his heel, waiting impatiently as John fixated the ice onto his tailbone.

"There we are," John said with a satisfied grunt.

Sherlock turned back around and couldn't help the amused look he gave John when he saw the bulge the ice was forming beneath the seat of John's trousers. It seemed that John had tried to cover up his nudity by pulling his pants over the ice.

"Are you really that bashful, John?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Well I'm certainly not as embarrassed as I might have been if I had left myself exposed."

"You're sure you don't need a hospital?"

John nodded.

"It's only a minor concussion which I agitated by nodding my head. A quick nap and plenty of rest and I'll be right as rain in a couple of hours. But if you could wake me up in about half an hour to make sure I don't completely lose consciousness, that would be great."

"Understood. Do you need anything else?"

John shook his head.

"Should be about it. Thanks."

Sherlock shifted his feet a bit.

"John… I really didn't intend to cause you this much trouble."

"Well, you did."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I suppose what I'm trying to say is- oh, what's the word…?"

"Sorry?"

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Yes. That. I'm… sorry."

John nodded.

"Yeah. It's okay, Sherlock."

There was a bit of silence before Sherlock broke it again.

"Your shoulder still seems to be bothering you. Would a massage help?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"You're serious?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Quite."

John looked a bit confused.

"I'm sure it'll be just fine."

"It's really no trouble at all, John. I have nothing better to do. I'm quite bored, as you so very expertly observed."

"No, it's, uh… it's fine. I really just need you to straighten the flat up; you know, to clean up the mess which you so _expertly _caused."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.

"Right."

John smirked.

"You know, I've never seen you so guilty."

Sherlock shook away his embarrassment, replacing it with his usual cold mask.

"Guilty? I've no idea what you're talking about. I was simply trying to avoid another one of your episodes through the use of charm and obedience."

John sighed.

"And there's the Sherlock I know. Just wake me up in half an hour. Remember that. _Half _an hour," John said.

"Yes, yes. Of course. You really ought to give me more credit, John."

"I think I already give you entirely too much."

Sherlock smirked and John smirked back.

"Well, I suppose you ought to rest now."

John nodded and rested his head on his forearms.

"Yeah. See you in a bit."

"Wait, John?"

"Hm?"

"That shoulder massage isn't off the table, you know. If you would still like one when you wake, I'm more than willing to oblige. And _not _because I'm guilty; I'm only offering because you're my friend and I know how irritable you can get when you're in the slightest bit of discomfort."

John smiled.

"Would that make you feel better?"

Sherlock blushed and looked down at the floor.

"It would put my mind at ease, yes."

"Then I suppose that would be alright."

Sherlock smiled a bit.

"Excellent."

"Can I get some sleep now?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course. Off you go."

And with that, the doctor nodded off, leaving Sherlock to sweep up glass shards in the kitchen.

* * *

**This is only the first story. How will John Watson get himself hurt in the next chapter? Submit your ideas in the reviews, and I shall give you full credit in the intro to the next story!**


	2. Shot

**Kudos to AspenDragonLord (a guest reviewer) for the prompt.**

* * *

It was, to both Sherlock and John's surprise, a lovely day; albeit a bit uneventful, but lovely nonetheless. Despite Sherlock's intolerable mood from earlier that morning, John had dragged him out into public and had shown the detective a good time. A bit of coffee, a small walk around London peppered with a bit of conversation, followed by a spot of lunch and another longer walk; it wasn't Sherlock's ideal afternoon, but he enjoyed it.

It was getting considerably dark as the two men were walking back to the flat. The shops were closing up and the streets were starting to empty, save the occasional car passing by.

"How about a cab?" John asked as he checked his wallet. "I think I've got enough cash on me to get us back home.

"It's a short walk. You'll survive."

"It's twenty minutes."

"Yes. Your point being?"

John stopped him in his tracks.

"Sherlock, it's getting to be about six o'clock, and we aren't exactly in the safest area. Not to mention it's bloody freezing outside."

Sherlock sighed.

"I told you to wear your gloves."

"And I told you I don't need them."

"And yet here you are, complaining about brisk weather."

John scowled.

"Look, can we just get a bloody cab already? I'd rather it not be pitch black outside when we arrive home."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If you're so desperate to get home in a timely manner, I know a shortcut we can take."

"Yeah. Or, you know, we could be sensible and take a _bloody cab_."

"You go on ahead if you want one so badly. I'll walk."

In three strides, Sherlock was already walking far ahead of John. The doctor groaned and ran to catch up to the stubborn detective.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, I'm not going to leave you to walk alone. No need to be a drama queen."

Sherlock gave a small huff of annoyance.

"By your definition of a "drama queen", I'd say you're more one than I."

John sighed.

"Whatever. You said something about a shortcut."

"Turn here," Sherlock said, making a sharp left into a dark alleyway.

John's stomach did a bit of a somersault as he inhaled the stench that lingered in the alley.

"Can we get through here quickly?" John asked. "I'd rather my lunch not end up on the pavement."

"Lengthen your stride," Sherlock said, quite passively.

"You know very well this is as far apart as my legs can go."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, you should have inherited better genetics."

John rolled his eyes.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?"

As the two neared the end of the alleyway, a figure jumped out into the darkness from behind a dumpster.

"Back up," he said.

He sounded young, hardly even twenty, and his voice quavered as he spoke.

"Money. Now. I-I've got a gun."

Sherlock and John looked at each other before looking back at young man.

"I doubt you know how to handle a firearm," Sherlock said, a chuckle almost in the back of his throat.

The young man quaked in his boots.

"I said give me your money. Gun's loaded."

John laughed a bit.

"Oh. Okay. You want money. What for, exactly?"

The youth gulped as he tried to steady his hold on the gun.

"N-none of your business! Just give me your money!"

John held up his hands.

"Alright, alright. Just give me a moment."

"John," Sherlock whispered, "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

"Once he sees the gun in my pocket, he'll know I have the upper hand. He's just a kid, Sherlock. He's not going to shoot that thing on purpose."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he watched John step closer to the kid.

"Okay, watch me," John said to the young man, slowly opening his jacket. "I'm getting my wallet out. Watch me take it."

John fully opened his jacket, revealing his trusty Browning which lay cozily inside the inside pocket.

As soon as the kid watched John reach for the pocket, he yelped and instinctively fired. Sherlock's eyes widened as he heard the bullet impact with flesh. He whipped his head over to John; the man's face had turned an ashen gray, and he was leaning against the adjacent wall of the alley, clutching his right shoulder which was slowly oozing a dark, dark liquid.

The youth gave a small cry and dropped the gun, the metal clattering on the pavement.

"I'm sorry," he said, sheepishly, before pivoting on his heel and making a dash for it.

Sherlock was about to pursue the lad, but he was stopped by a small moan from the injured doctor.

John was more important at the present moment.

"John!" he cried, breathlessly, as he ran over to his poor companion, catching him before he could fall to the ground. "Excellent plan."

John looked up at the detective, a bit of a glazed look in his eye.

"Told you we should've taken a cab."

Sherlock worked quickly to lay John down and remove his own scarf. He quickly pressed the garment to John's shoulder.

"John, hold this to your shoulder. We need to staunch the blood flow."

John groaned.

"Jesus, I know that! I'm a bloody doctor!"

Sherlock brushed off the latter comment and quickly phoned Lestrade, ordering him to send at least a dozen ambulances to the area.

"Really? Lestrade? Why not 999?" John asked with a bit of an eye roll.

Sherlock returned his hands to the scarf.

"He'll get them here much quicker."

John sighed and looked over at Sherlock's hands; the once ivory skin was now tainted with the doctor's own blood. The metallic smell of it, mixed with the awful stench of the alley made quite an interesting olfactory concoction.

"Sherlock…"

"Shut up. Don't speak."

"I'll have matching wounds, now."

Sherlock gazed sadly at him.

"I know. I'm sorry."

A moment of silence passed.

"It's my fault."

John shifted his gaze to the man currently struggling to keep the life in him.

"Hm?"

"If I had agreed to take a cab home, you wouldn't be lying here."

John laughed half-heartedly.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Just please don't die as a result of my stubborn nature. That would be a rather dull and inconsiderate thing of you to do. I hardly think I could stand your absence."

John smiled and weakly patted Sherlock's hands.

"S'okay, Sherlock. 'm not gonna die. Sling, maybe. But not gonna die."

Sherlock knitted his brow.

"Your inability to speak coherently is quite discouraging."

John gave him a stern look.

"'m a doctor. I know these things."

"My confidence in your medical knowledge is significantly lower when you're bleeding out on the ground. Talk to me when you're well again. Then my faith in you will be restored."

John nodded sleepily before allowing his eyes to shut completely.

Sherlock could have fainted out of relief when he heard the nearing sound of sirens. They couldn't have come a moment too soon.

Sherlock obediently removed himself from the path of the EMTs as they fumbled with his bleeding companion, keeping a watchful eye over the whole process. If anything went awry, he wanted to be the one to scold the person responsible and to take charge once again. To his dismay, Lestrade was blocking his view, prattling on about statements and the like. Sherlock just pushed the DI out of the way and ran over to where John was being loaded into the back of the ambulance. He slipped past the group and into the ambulance, earning unhappy grunts from the EMTs trying to fumble with the gurney. After a bit of struggling, however, he and the rest managed to pack themselves in. As the medical team bustled about John, Sherlock slipped his hand in the near-unconscious doctor's.

"John, I don't know if you can hear me right now, what with the loud cacophony of noise, but just know that I owe you a cab ride. And I'll be sure to pay the fare."

John opened his eyes a bit and smiled.

"You owe me at least ten."

Sherlock smirked.

"Of course, John."


	3. Hit by a Car

**Credit goes to VickyWinchester for the prompt.**

* * *

*Have you done it? -SH*

*I'm waiting for your cup.*

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently and glared at the time on the phone.

*It's been a good twenty minutes. Hurry up. -SH*

*It's a busy day. The café is packed.*

*On my way back. Sorry that took so long.*

Sherlock laid his phone down on the arm of the chair with a sigh. It really shouldn't have taken John that long to order two cups of coffee, and the lack of caffeine was starting to irk him. Nevertheless, he steepled his hands and closed his eyes in an attempt to exercise some patience. But God it was hard.

It was not long before his concentration was interrupted by the grating sound of screeching tires and screams. He rolled his eyes. Someone struck a pedestrian. Dull.

Before he could resume his meditation, Mrs. Hudson ran through the door, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sherlock was immediately alert.

"Oh Sherlock," the landlady sobbed, "John..."

Sherlock needed no more. He bolted down the stairs and out into the street, his eyes darting every which way. A crowd was huddled around a body on the street, obviously waiting for an ambulance. As Sherlock approached the group, he saw something that made his stomach drop: A spilt takeout cup of coffee with his name on it.

"John," he said, the name barely a whisper on his lips. "Move, move! He's my friend!"

He elbowed his way through the crowd, ignoring the startled grunts from the people he was pushing past; he was too caught up in irrationally hoping that John wasn't the one lying there. But he knew it didn't matter how hard he wished, for it didn't change the fact that a bloodied John Watson lay mangled on the ground, coffee and blood seeping through his lovely, white jumper.

Sherlock kneeled next to his companion, frantically rolling him onto his back and placing two fingers on his neck. He felt how slow and strained John's pulse was.

"Oh John..."

John cracked his eyes open and looked at Sherlock with a pained expression.

"Sherl..."

"Quiet, John. It's alright," Sherlock said, grabbing his hand. "The ambulance will arrive shortly."

John nodded and winced, gritting his teeth in pain.

"Hold still, John." Sherlock said, trying to hide his panic.

He scanned John's body, trying to catalogue his injuries. This was a fruitless task, as Sherlock could hardly concentrate, what with the worried thoughts rushing about in his head faster than light itself. All he could deduce were broken ribs, and that was entirely due to John's struggle to breathe properly.

"Hang on, John," Sherlock commanded. "Just hang on."

"I can't... breathe..."

Sherlock stroked John's hair out of his face.

"Hold on, John. You'll be alright." He looked up and saw the EMTs rushing over to where he and John were positioned. "See John? It's going to be alright. Help is here." He looked back at John.

His eyes were closed.

"John?" Sherlock felt for a pulse, relieved when he felt a weak beat beneath his fingertips.

"Sir, please step aside."

Sherlock looked at the woman staring at him, a frown on her face.

"We need room, sir."

Sherlock nodded and removed his fingers from John's neck, but he dared not let go of his hand. As John was wheeled over to the ambulance, Sherlock trailed along, keeping a firm grip on the doctor's hand.

He promised to stay hooked onto his friend. His life depended on it.

* * *

Sherlock burst into Lestrade's office.

"WHERE IS HE?!" he bellowed.

Lestrade gave him a confused sort of look.

"Excuse me?"

"You aren't fooling me with your cluelessness. You know very well to whom I am referring."

Lestrade sighed.

"We've got him in custody, Sherlock."

"Great. Wonderful. Brilliant. Let's celebrate with cake, why don't we?" Sherlock slammed his fist on the table. "My question wasn't, 'Has he been arrested?'. My question was, 'Where is he?'. Now answer my question."

"If I tell you, what are you going to do?"

Sherlock went silent.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm just as pissed at the guy as you are. John is my friend too. But what happened was an accident. And I don't think an accident warrants the murder of the drunk who caused it."

"What makes you think I'd kill this man?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

"You nearly killed that American after he barely touched Mrs. H. And I already know what you'd do for John."

Sherlock scratched the back of his head out of frustration.

"I simply wanted to deliver a message to him."

The DI raised an eyebrow.

"And what might that message be, exactly?"

"Just tell him that the next time he consumes a bottle of alcohol, he had better watch his useless head if he dares to place himself behind the wheel of an automobile."

Lestrade nodded with a sigh.

"I'll be sure to tell him that."

"Wonderful. And make sure you reiterate to him how serious I am." He straightened his shirt. "Now if you'll excuse me, there is an injured man who is in need of my company."

Before Sherlock stepped out the door, Lestrade had a firm grasp on his arm.

"How is John, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's tense frame softened.

"They are not sure when and if he's going to wake up."

"Jesus. Do you need me to come with you?"

"No. I want to be alone with him."

Lestrade nodded.

"Okay, mate. I mean, if you're sure."

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course I'm sure."

* * *

Sherlock was caught by a nurse as soon as he walked into the hospital lobby.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's face drained of all color.

"What happened?"

The nurse smiled.

"Nothing bad. He just woke up, is all. He's been asking for you."

Sherlock immediately began running down the hall, the blood pounding in his head. He slid into the doorway of John's room, and he felt just about weightless when he saw John quite awake.

The nurse walked in behind him.

"We were just as shocked as you are, Mr. Holmes. We weren't expecting him to wake for a long while. But I suppose Dr. Watson here is quite a resilient man."

Sherlock smiled.

"Indeed."

John smiled weakly at him.

"Well." the nurse said quite jovially, "I suppose I ought to leave you two to chat. You gave your friend here quite a scare, Dr. Watson."

She then walked out of the room to leave the two men alone.

"A scare?" John said with a bit of a smirk.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Yes, well... one could say I was... concerned."

"I hope you didn't do anything rash."

"I left the man who hit you a message."

John frowned.

"And what might that message be?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If you're asking if I harmed the man in any way, no. Lestrade refused me to disclose the bastard's location."

John sighed.

"It was a simple case of drunk driving."

"He nearly killed you, John."

John shrugged, suppressing a wince.

"Yeah, well; accidents happen."

"But they aren't supposed to happen to you."

"C'mere," John said, motioning the detective over.

Sherlock strode over to John's bedside.

"Sit down, Sherlock."

Sherlock hesitantly pulled over a chair and sat down in it. John reached out and took Sherlock's hand in his own, despite the pain from his fractured wrist.

"Look at me," John said.

Sherlock stared into John's eyes, making his distress quite clear to the doctor.

"I'm alright. Okay? Yeah, I'm on some pretty heavy painkillers, but for the most part, I'm fine."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look an awful wreck, what with the multitude of bandages covering various locations on your body. And not to mention the casts on your wrist and leg."

John smiled.

"Hey; it could have been a lot worse."

Sherlock frowned.

"You were unconscious for a good twenty four hours."

"Yeah. Like I said: Could've been a lot worse."

"You could hardly breathe yesterday."

"I was trying not to disturb my cracked ribs."

"From the looks of you, you seemed to be suffering from a multitude of broken ones."

"Nope. Only one broken. Did I really look that bad?"

"Yes. You really, really did."

"Oh. Well... that's a bit not good." He scratched his nose. "Sorry about the coffee, by the way."

"What?" Sherlock said, furrowing his brow. "You've only recently been hit by a bloody car, barely escaping with your life, and you're worried about coffee?"

"I know how badly you wanted it..."

"Can't you just think of yourself for once, John?" Sherlock said, almost bellowing.

John's lips tightened and he looked down at the sheets.

"I mean... I don't know."

"John..." Sherlock sighed, "I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. It's fine. I just- ooh, Jesus, okay..." John put a hand to his ribcage.

"John? Are you alright?"

John nodded quickly and pressed the call button. Almost instantly, the nurse was in, helping John to some morphine.

"There you go, Dr. Watson," she said once she had finished.

John smiled.

"Thanks, Anna. I think I'm going to grab a nap. I'm feeling exhausted."

Anna nodded.

"Do you want me to send your friend out?"

"I will stay right here. No one shall move me," Sherlock said with the defiance of a child.

John rolled his eyes.

"He gets like that sometimes. He'll

be fine in here."

Anna shrugged and went out the door, closing it behind her.

"Sorry I'm nodding off on you," John said.

"You need your rest, John. I have no objection to your decision."

John smiled and shut his eyes.

"Are you really going to stay here?"

"Of course, John. Once you reawaken, perhaps I'll run out for some coffee."

John chuckled.

"Sure. After all, I hardly even got to drink mine yesterday."


	4. Crippled

**Thanks to Aunna for this prompt.**

* * *

The window broke as John crashed through it, tumbling to the ground below.

Sherlock could hardly hear his own scream, let alone Lestrade's.

His feet were frozen in place, his head buzzing. He looked away from the window and to the man who had thrown John out of it.

The bastard actually looked _pleased_ with himself.

With a barbaric yell, Sherlock charged the man and knocked him to the floor. The grimy Welshman struggled beneath the (surprisingly) immense weight of the detective, his hands reaching for the knife in his pocket. Unfortunately for the man, Sherlock was on high alert, his eyes immediately falling on the knife. He unceremoniously ripped the blade from the criminal's pocket, nicking him in the side and tearing through the thin fabric of the trousers. The man gasped as the knife was placed at his throat, the sharp blade barely grazing the skin.

"I'd say your friend is a bit more important than some petty revenge, don't you think Mr. Holmes?" the criminal choked, trying his best not to shy away from the detective's crazy eyes.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled, running over to the scuffle, "You need to get outside. Right now."

Sherlock pulled his focus from the man pinned beneath him and looked over at the DI.

"Oh my God," he whispered as he scrambled to his feet, carelessly dropping the knife to the ground.

The criminal coughed as he sat himself up, mumbling curses under his breath. His mumblings were interrupted by the sound of a gun's safety being clicked off right next to his head.

"You have the right to remain silent," Lestrade said, his voice deep and commanding.

The criminal obliged.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure how fast he was running, but he was sure it wasn't fast enough. John was dying, and there were far to many steps preventing Sherlock from reaching him in a timely manner. Soon enough, however, the detective threw open the door to the outside air and dashed over to the doctor. He slid to his knees, his fingers immediately finding their way to John's carotid artery to keep track of the doctor's pulse.

John was breathing quite irregularly, as if he was trying to keep himself from causing more damage.

He was a doctor. He knew how to handle a situation like this. He knew what to do.

Sherlock didn't.

_John, help. Please. I'm scared._

What came out wasn't that. What came out instead was:

"Idiot."

No. No, no. Sherlock didn't mean that. He knew he didn't.

"I'm sorry," he said, gripping onto John's bicep. "Don't die."

The detective could have sworn he heard the doctor laugh. The man had just fallen from a window eight stories high, and was _laughing_.

John gave a spluttering cough and groaned.

"Don't do that, John," Sherlock said in as clinical a voice as he could manage.

"Can't 'elp it," John wheezed. "Sorry."

Sherlock shook his head rapidly.

"It's alright, John. It's alright. Just focus on not dying."

He knew Lestrade had seen the fall, so calling an ambulance was not his concern. All that he needed to worry about was making sure John's heart kept beating.

His eyes trailed down John's body, trying to assess the damage.

_Broken ribs, maybe a collapsed lung, concussion (hopefully no extensive head trauma)..._

His eyes hit John's legs.

Both were broken, the right shinbone jutting out and creating quite a mess.

He knew what it meant.

"A bit not good, then?" John said, swallowing hard.

Sherlock couldn't answer. He was too focused on the mangled mess that was John's lower body. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, almost wishing to touch the bone. But he knew better.

"Sherl," John choked out, his voice weak, "Answer me."

Sherlock swallowed the hard lump in his throat and nodded.

"It's not good."

"Yeah. Figured."

There was a moment of silence before the sound of sirens broke it.

"Sherl?"

"What is it, John?"

"I can't feel my legs."

* * *

Sherlock paced about the room, wringing his hands together as he did so.

A doctor still hadn't come by to give him any news on the state of his poor flatmate, and it was driving him utterly mad.

Anytime Sherlock heard footsteps clacking on the hard hospital floor, he crossed his fingers that they belonged to a medical man bearing good news. And each time he was thoroughly disappointed.

After about two hours of endless pacing, Sherlock felt a big, masculine hand grab his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

_Smells of aftershave, cheap cologne, and bad coffee. Lestrade._

Sherlock craned his head to find a few silver hairs in his peripheral vision. It was most definitely the Inspector.

"How is he?" he asked, his voice soft and tired-sounding.

"None of these so-called professionals will tell me a bloody thing!" Sherlock said with a growl.

"Now Sherlock," Lestrade said, wagging a finger at the detective, "You know very well these men and women know more about their field than you do. Stop acting as if you're more qualified."

Sherlock grumbled something under his breath and shrugged out of Lestrade's tight grip, resuming his incessant pacing. The DI could only sigh and watch as the detective dug a trench.

* * *

A doctor finally did come by after another two and a half hours.

And she delivered the news Sherlock hadn't wanted to hear.

He let the words wash over him, but his brain could only block out so much. When the woman had finished, she laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in an effort to comfort him. But all it did what make Sherlock tense up.

"Would you like to see him, sir?"

That registered.

Sherlock's ears perked up and his eyes brightened.

_An ICU visit? That typically is reserved for family members only..._

_Jesus, why are you questioning this? Just take the invitation. Assume it's Mycroft._

Wordlessly, Sherlock nodded and obediently followed the doctor, feeling Lestrade give him a reassuring pat on the back.

Sherlock was going to need all the reassurance and support he could get.

After all, he was the one who would have to tell John.

* * *

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently and stared at the clock.

It was currently five o'clock in the morning. And, as usual, he hadn't gotten any sleep.

But he didn't care.

As the seconds passed, Sherlock's grip on John's hand became tighter and tighter. His other hand lay on his thigh, his fingers drumming along to the beat of the numerous beeping machines hooked into John.

God, how he hated those machines.

The first day hadn't been so bad, but as things led into the fifth day, Sherlock was becoming increasingly irritated. It wasn't due to boredom, however; it was more because of his growing uncertainty that John would ever wake up. But maybe that was a good thing, considering the man John would be if he did.

No. Don't say that. Don't ever say that. I will help him through this.

Sherlock stopped tapping and just listened to his surroundings. The clock was ticking and the heart monitor beeping in sync with John's heartbeat. They had removed the ventilator two days beforehand, saying that John was showing signs of waking up, and that he could breathe on his own.

Then why is it that he still won't wake?

Sherlock jumped when he heard the door open quite abruptly.

"Sorry I gave you a scare, Mr. Holmes," the nurse said with the brightest of smiles. "I've just come to change out the bags."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, muttering a 'fine' that the nurse could hardly hear. The nurse finished her task quite quickly, and left the room without another word.

Sherlock leaned back into the molded plastic chair with a sigh and squeezed John's hand again, irrationally hoping it would rouse the doctor from his slumber.

John's hand squeezed back.

Sherlock was immediately alert, his eyes darting towards the once relaxed features of his friend. The eyelids were tightly shut, as if trying to resist the strong pull of consciousness.

"John?" Sherlock whispered.

John moaned.

"S'lock..."

The detective's heart felt a thousand stones lighter.

"It's me, John. Can you hear me?"

John's head lolled in Sherlock's direction, and, with much effort, he pulled his eyelids open.

"You're all fuzzy," John slurred, squinting at the man next to him.

Sherlock gave a sort of smile.

"Give it a moment."

John blinked his eyes a few times as he looked around the room.

"Wha' happened?" he asked.

"You fell. Or rather, you were pushed. Out of a window eight stories above ground," Sherlock said, almost guiltily.

"Jesus," John said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How long have I been out?"

"Four days, five hours, thirteen minutes, and forty five seconds."

John gave Sherlock a confused sort of look.

"You've been counting exactly?"

"Well, estimating certainly wouldn't do you any good."

John nodded and closed his eyes again, breathing out a deep sigh.

"How bad is it?"

Sherlock hesitated to open his mouth, for he knew that if he did, John would know exactly how bad it was.

Sherlock didn't want him to know. But there was no way to avoid it.

"John..."

Before Sherlock could continue, John let out a strangled sort of sound in his throat.

"Sherlock, I can't move my toes."

The detective felt a knot forming in the back of his throat.

"Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ. Sherlock... am I...?"

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"When you landed, you landed in a near-vertical position. The base of your spine was practically shattered, and your legs weren't in the best shape either. I'm so sorry, John."

John looked up at the ceiling, trying to stop himself from crying. He was a soldier, dammit. He wasn't going to cry. Especially not in front of his friend.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in concern and squeezed John's hand even more tightly. John felt the man's piercing gaze and could hardly stifle the broken laugh that came out.

"I know, sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Emotions are boring."

Sherlock almost looked hurt by the remark, his usually piercing, grey eyes softening.

Yet he dared not say a word.

All he could do was hold John's hand as the poor doctor cried silent tears.

He even let a few of his own spill over his lashes.

* * *

"Ready, Doctor Watson?"

John shrugged.

"I guess I have to be, hm?"

The nurse gave him a sad sort of smile as she placed her hands under his arms.

"On three, now: One, two-"

"Can I?"

Both doctor and nurse looked at the doorway, revealing to their eyes a haggard-looking Sherlock holding a plastic cup of coffee.

"Sherlock, it's okay. She can do it," John said, his voice sounding tremendously tired.

"Please."

John sighed and nodded to the nurse. The young woman only hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, leaving Sherlock to take her place.

"How should I do this, John?" Sherlock asked, his hands hovering inches from John's frail-looking form. The detective feared that any wrong move might mean his friend would shatter into a million other pieces.

"Just grab my waist," John said, guiding his friend's hands to said body part, "And just lower me down."

Sherlock nodded and tightened his grip around the doctor's waist, noting how pleasantly soft and warm it felt.

"Will this do?"

John nodded.

"S'good. Now let me just-" John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "There."

"On three?"

"On three."

Sherlock nodded.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

Sherlock was almost disturbed at how easy it was to lift John. Though when he recalled John's lengthy stay at the hospital, it made sense that the man would have lost a considerable amount of weight.

Carefully, he lowered the doctor into the wheelchair beside the bed, the whole process proving itself to be surprisingly hassle-free.

The nurse smiled from across the room.

"Well, it seems as if you two have got things handled. I'll be back with a blanket. It's a bit chilly this time of year."

As soon as she was out of the room and the door had closed, Sherlock began adjusting John's legs so that the feet were on the footrests.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked with a sigh.

"Attempting to make you as comfortable as possible."

John rolled his eyes.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, you don't have to bloody grovel. For the last time: what happened wasn't your fault."

Sherlock looked up at John.

"This isn't grovelling, John. I am only trying to make this... sudden change a bit easier for you."

Before John could say anymore, the nurse returned with a large blanket in hand.

"Here we are!" she said, cheerily. "Sorry it's nothing too pretty. But it'll keep you warm."

"Thank you," both Sherlock and John said simultaneously.

"I'll take care of it," Sherlock said with his famous 'I'm-only-being-nice-to-you-because-I-have-to-to-get-what-I-want' smile.

The nurse thought nothing of what John knew to be the out of character request, and she happily handed the detective the flannel blanket.

With a flick of the wrists, Sherlock had the blanket flattened out and guided it as it fluttered down to settle on John. When he went to tuck the edges around the doctor's waist, his wrist was gripped by a strong hand.

"Sherlock," John said in a near-whisper, "I can do it."

Sherlock simply shook his wrist free and proceeded to complete his self-administered task.

"There," he said, gently patting out the garment's wrinkles.

John just rolled his eyes, placing his hands on the grips of the wheels.

"Ready."

The nurse smiled and opened the door so that John could fit through.

"After you, Doctor."

John gave a small smile and proceeded to push himself forward.

Sherlock couldn't help but cringe as the chair caught caught on the door frame.

"Fuck," John muttered as he tried to angle himself again, groaning when he realised the task's futility. "Sherlock?"

The detective was immediately there to push John through, earning a relieved sigh from the man.

"Thanks," John said over his shoulder.

"Of course, John."

* * *

"Come on, you son of a bitch," John said as he stretched his arm out, trying his damnedest to grab hold of the box of tea. "Come on."

His fingers barely brushed the corner of the box, earning from him a frustrated grunt.

"Almost, Watson, come on," he whispered to himself as he stretched his arm a bit further.

Much to his dismay, he only succeeded in pushing the tea further back on the shelf. With a resigned sigh, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

"Fuck."

"Do you need assistance?"

John looked over at the doorway leading into the kitchen and saw Sherlock standing there, his pale form illuminated by the morning sunshine.

"Oh. Morning," John grumbled, rolling himself away from the counter. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to know that I ought to move the tea somewhere where you can reach it. For now, why don't I prepare it?"

"Forget it. I didn't want any anyway."

Before John could maneuver around him, Sherlock had his hand on the doctor's chest, stopping him in his tracks.

"Let me help you, John. Please. It's the least I can do."

"Don't bother, Sherlock."

John made another move to move past the detective, but he found that his wheel wouldn't budge. Looking down, he saw that Sherlock had wedged his foot there.

"Why are you so averse to accepting my aid, John?"

The doctor looked down at his feet in silence.

"John?"

John shook his head.

"Look, just make yourself some tea. Don't worry about me."

"I don't plan on moving until you explain to me why you're so dismissive."

John sighed.

"Look, it's not you, Sherlock."

"Then what is it?"

"It's me. I'm a cripple, Sherlock, and a bloody useless one at that."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm a burden, Sherlock. You're dropping everything to help me live a life which I should be able to live independently. Why you are, I have no clue. The chances of my getting better are not very high, so all you're really accomplishing at this point is prolonging another boring, human life that is hardly of any use to you now. I just wish you'd forget me and move on with your life. Maybe find another flatmate who can use both of his legs."

Sherlock pulled a chair up and sat down so that he was face-to-face with his friend. He placed his hand on John's and gripped it tightly.

"John Hamish Watson, you are not a burden," he said with as much tenderness as he could muster. "I have chosen to care for you because you are my friend and I want to, not because I feel as if it's an obligation. I have no intention to find another flatmate, as such a venture would be quite fruitless. After all, you are one of a kind."

"You're only saying that."

Sherlock laughed a bit.

"A part of what makes you so endearing is your cluelessness, John. I never make passive remarks; you know that. What I say, I mean. And if I pass you a compliment, you'd better take it seriously, for I am a serious man. You are truly irreplaceable, John, whether or not you have the use of both your legs."

John smiled a bit and looked into those stormy grey eyes.

"Well that sure as hell sounded sincere."

Sherlock grinned.

"Sincerity is my strongest suit." He patted John's hand and gave it one last squeeze. "Now, how about some tea?"

John grinned back.

"I would love that."


	5. Internally Wounded

**Here's another chapter for you all! Sorry my updates have been a bit erratic. School's just getting a bit crazy. :P**

**Thanks to HakuHunterNatural for the prompt! (Hopefully this is close to what you had in mind.)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John lay on his back, trying to catch his breath.

God, that son of a bitch had kneed him _hard._

_"_John!" he heard Sherlock call.

"Right here," he wheezed out, trying to sit himself up.

"He's getting away, John! Get up!"

John rolled his eyes and clumsily placed his feet on the ground and stood up.

"You keep on..."

Sherlock had already turned the corner.

"...going."

John sighed and sat himself against the wall, wincing as he did so.

_Jesus, that hurts._

How hard had he been hit?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to block out the alarming amount of pain.

_I'm probably fine. _

He felt a hand roughly shaking him.

"John, mate, are you okay?"

John opened his eyes and saw Lestrade hovering over him with a concerned look on his face.

"John?"

John nodded and pushed himself up from the ground, leaning on the wall for support.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright. He just kneed me pretty hard in the gut. I'll be okay."

Lestrade raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"You're paler than my mother was at her funeral."

John smiled and brushed himself off.

"Really, I'll be fine."

Before Lestrade could protest, there was a loud yell of frustration that echoed down the alleyway.

"We had him!" Sherlock yelled as he stormed over towards Lestrade and John. "Just a few moments quicker, and we would have caught him!"

John's cheeks had turned a deep shade of red, immediately giving away his shame.

"Sorry," he said, his voice quiet.

Sherlock simply growled and pushed through the two men before him.

John sighed and crossed his arms, clutching his biceps to keep the cold from biting at him.

"Sounds like I'm walking home," John said with a half-hearted chuckle.

Lestrade gave the doctor a pitiful smile.

"I can give you a ride."

"Nah, it's okay. You've got to focus on apprehending that bastard."

"At least take some change for a cab. I don't want you walking in this weather, looking the way you do."

The D.I. held out a hand full of coins.

"Greg, I'm seriously okay. I can walk home."

"No way, mate. It's getting dark outside, it's freezing, and you look like death. You're an easy target for muggers. And I sure as hell don't want to be filling out even more paperwork."

Reluctantly, John took the change from Lestrade and pocketed it.

"I'll pay you back tomorrow, yeah?"

"I won't hold you to it."

"Sir!" Donovan called, jogging over.

She looked at John and scowled.

"Did the Freak forget to escort his boyfriend home?"

John just rolled his eyes and shrugged off the comment.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Greg."

"Get some rest, okay mate?"

John nodded.

"Sure."

* * *

John shuffled down the stairs into the kitchen, trying to rub away the tired feeling in his eyes.

_I know I have some pain meds somewhere._

He rustled through the cabinets, trying to avoid making any noise, but found it hard, considering the amount of glassware hidden about.

"Hey, Sherlock?" he called, knowing the detective would be awake at this hour.

No answer.

John hobbled into the sitting room and found Sherlock sitting at the desk, typing away on his laptop.

"Sherlock?" John asked again.

Still no answer.

"Did you do something with the Ibuprofen?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Mind telling me where you put it?"

"It's all gone. I used it for an experiment."

John sighed and rubbed his side.

"Has all the medication in the flat been used for your experiments?"

"Yes."

John groaned and sat himself down in the chair.

"Do stop moaning, John; it's quite distracting."

"Well, it's not my fault that the guy kneed me in the stomach."

"Hm."

John leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"God, it really does hurt, though."

"Then go to bed, John. Sleep it off. Besides, it's getting harder for me to focus on this case when you're complaining about a painful bruise."

"Sorry to be such a distraction," John muttered as he eased himself up. "Good night."

"Fine."

John sighed and made his way over to the stairs.

_Hopefully I'll feel a bit better tomorrow._

* * *

"Won't you hurry up, John?!"

"Give me five minutes, won't you?!"

John hissed as he stroked the unsightly bruise on his stomach.

_This can't be just a bruise._

He knew it wasn't. He just refused to admit it.

As quickly as he could, John slipped on his jumper and jacket and raced down the stairs.

"I'm ready!" he called.

"I've got a cab waiting. Let's go," Sherlock said as he placed his phone in his pocket.

The cab ride was rough for John. Every bump that they hit meant excruciating pain.

But he was strong. He gritted his teeth and pretended not to feel a thing.

Finally, they arrived at the Yard. John carefully wandered into the station, the pain seemingly intensifying each time he took a step. He ignored the worried stares from passing officers and continued to limp after his friend.

"Sherlock, slow down," he said, tiredly.

He doubted the detective had heard him.

After what seemed like ages, John finally made his way to the interrogation chamber.

_Interrogation? Why in the hell...?_

"Okay, Sherlock, make this quick," Lestrade said.

_When did Lestrade get here?_

"John!"

"Hm? What?"

"I need you to take notes," Sherlock said, sliding off his gloves.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, why are we here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I explained this to you in the cab, John. Lestrade's captured the man we were chasing last night."

John furrowed his brow as he tried to remember.

"What's his name?"

"I told you, John, his name is McCoy. Joseph McCoy. We've been over this. Now do hurry up."

As John went to step into the room, he felt someone grab his arm.

"John, if you don't feel up to it, don't do it."

It was Lestrade.

"I'm alright, Greg. Really," John said with a fake smile.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"You look worse than you did yesterday. I don't think you should be doing this."

"He said he's fine, Lestrade. Now, may we proceed?" Sherlock said with an air of annoyance.

"Yeah. Coming in." John wiggled his way out of the D.I.'s tight grip.

Lestrade watched skeptically through the window as John took a seat next to Sherlock.

* * *

John squinted at his watch, trying to make out the numbers.

_3:30. Fuck. We've been sitting here for three hours._

He gave his half a page of notes a disapproving stare.

"I may be a master of deduction, Mr. McCoy," Sherlock said, "but that does not mean I can read one's mind. Tell me: Who is behind this whole drug operation?"

The criminal laughed.

"I ain't telling you nothin', Mr. Holmes. Or your friend, neither."

John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock..."

"Quiet, John." Sherlock removed his coat, carefully draping it over the back of the chair and sat down.

"I don't like long interrogation sessions, especially ones where the subject in question is a complete imbecile. Now, I can tell you're just as ready to get out of here as I am. And you will soon as long as you answer my questions."

McCoy twisted his cuffed wrists a bit. He was obviously uncomfortable.

"I don't need to tell you nothin'."

"Then we'll just sit here longer."

John sighed and crossed his arms.

Sherlock quickly looked the criminal over, and John saw a twinkle of light in the detective's eye, and knew immediately that he had something.

"Does your wife know what you've been up to? Or, should I say 'ex-wife'?" Sherlock said with a smirk.

McCoy shifted in his seat.

"She left you, from the looks of it. The ring on your finger; it's not been polished, but there is no evidence of fingerprints. You tend to forget it's there, as if it's a part of you. However, if you were still with your wife, she'd be there to remind you to polish it every now and then."

The criminal began to turn a deep shade of red. Whether it was out of anger or embarrassment, John wasn't sure.

"Heroin, cocaine, meth; quite the junkie, weren't you? But you stopped doing drugs as soon as you met your wife. Why? Perhaps you really were in love. Perhaps you met _because _of your drug habits. She was your therapist, hm?"

"Shut up," McCoy growled.

"She helped you get better; to get back on your feet. Then why did she leave you?"

McCoy shook his head.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Of that reason I am not sure. But I can tell you relied on her pay-check. As soon as she left, you knew you needed to start making money for yourself. You already had connections in the drug ring of London, so you began work there, selling. I can tell you've been clean for a while, however, because the punctures in your right forearm have faded. The only reason you didn't pick up your habits again was because you still love your ex-wife. So she obviously didn't cheat on you..."

Sherlock stopped.

"Ohhhhh. I see now. She didn't leave you. She died."

The short fuse which Sherlock had lit finally ran out.

"Stop it! I've had enough!" McCoy shouted.

Suddenly, the man lunged from across the table at Sherlock.

John was immediately alert, his military instinct kicking in before he could even think; he went to tackle the McCoy.

McCoy, surprised by the unexpected reinforcements, wasted no time in ramming the doctor, stomach first, into the metal table.

John let out a sharp gasp and collapsed to the floor, clutching his side.

All noises surrounding him became muffled, and all he could make out were the worried cries of his flatmate.

_Sherlock? Worried? That can't be right._

There was a thump not too far off, which John assumed to be the sound of Lestrade pinning McCoy down to the ground.

The last thing he saw before blacking out was the blurred figure of Sherlock frantically calling to him.

He could have sworn he felt a hand cupping his cheek.

* * *

John slowly opened his eyes, hissing as they were exposed to the harsh light above him.

"John?" a voice called to him.

"Fuck," was all John could mutter.

He felt a hand on his back guide him to a cup in front of his lips.

"Drink," the voice said, commanding but soothing.

John obeyed and allowed the cool water flow past his lips. It hurt to swallow, but damn the water felt _so good_.

"John, are you able to speak?"

John wet his lips a bit.

"Sort of."

"Can you open your eyes?"

Had he closed them?

"Lemme try."

John opened his eyes again, and found that the light had been dimmed, making it a bit easier on his stomach and head.

"John?"

The doctor nodded a bit and blinked.

"Yeah. M'awake."

A mop of black curls came swinging into John's field of vision.

"Sherlock?"

Said detective gazed at him guiltily and nodded.

"John, I'm so very sorry."

"Hm? What are you on about?"

"When McCoy attacked you the other day, in the alleyway, he managed to rupture your spleen. It was beginning to heal on its own until he rammed you into the table during the interrogation."

John nodded slowly.

"Right. Why are you sorry?"

"The signs were so obvious. I should have known you needed to take it easy."

"S'not your fault."

Sherlock perched himself on the side of the bed, drumming his fingers nervously on the mattress.

"If I had simply paid attention, you wouldn't be here."

John chuckled.

"Yeah, well, you've never really been that great at paying attention, now, have you?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Drowsy and a bit uncomfortable."

"Hot?"

"Quite."

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock placed his hand on his forehead. The coolness of the detective's skin felt nice against his own, feverish skin, and he leaned into the touch.

"You are incredibly feverish. Though you aren't as bad off as you were yesterday," Sherlock said, removing his hand.

"Yesterday? Jesus, how long have I been here?"

"Not long, I suppose. Three days. You were delirious throughout most of the day yesterday due to a dangerously high fever."

"Oh."

"Well, I suppose I ought to get the nurse," Sherlock said, sliding off the bed towards the door.

"Wait, Sherlock?"

The detective looked over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"How long have you been here with me?"

There was a brief moment of silence before Sherlock answered.

"I haven't left since you arrived."

John blushed.

"You... you stayed?"

Sherlock turned back around to face the doctor.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"It's just... the case. You were so involved in it and it meant so much to you. Why did you drop everything to watch over me?"

"I wanted to make sure you'd live after my failure to keep you safe. And it seems that you pulled through," he said, gesturing to the machines hooked up to the doctor. "Besides, Lestrade has the case handled for the time being. By the way, he told me to tell you 'get well'."

"It was only a little internal bleeding, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes spoke of something more than guilt. Was it... worry?

"John, they told me that you flatlined. It took them approximately two minutes to revive you."

"What?"

"You died, John."

"I'm still alive."

"Your heart stopped beating for a full two minutes. You were dead, John."

"I'm okay now."

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair.

"I just... I wanted to make sure you _stayed_ alive. I could hardly bear it if I were to be the one responsible for your more permanent death."

John smiled.

"Well, I'll promise you this: When I do die, it won't be your fault."

Sherlock frowned.

"That's hardly comforting. All you've done is remind me that you're mortal."

"So are you."

"Yes, but I don't go running around Afghanistan and London trying to get myself injured."

John's lips tightened.

"I'm not the one who goes looking for trouble."

"Are you saying I do?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, you crave it."

"Says the man in the hospital bed."

John crossed his arms and leaned back.

"Who ended up here chasing after _you_."

"I thought you said it wasn't my fault!"

"Never said it was. All I'm saying is, you go looking for danger and I follow you."

"Well, you _are _an adrenaline junkie."

"Yeah, but you are too, aren't you? I mean, when adventure calls, you don't hesitate to pick up the phone."

"Yes, well... I suppose you're right."

"This is why we're flatmates," John said, smiling.

Sherlock smirked.

"Indeed."

"Right, well, now that you know I'm alive, I think I'm going to get some sleep. You can go ahead and grab the nurse so she can hook me up with some more morphine."

Sherlock nodded.

"Go ahead and get back to the case while you're at it. I can tell the hospital's been quite boring for you."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, uncertain.

"Yeah. I'll be alright."

"Alright. Sleep, then."

John nodded.

"Yeah. See you in a bit."

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Don't do that to me again."

John chuckled.

"I'll try not to."

* * *

**I tried to add a bit more plot to this one. Hopefully I didn't _completely_ fail.**

**Keep the prompts coming! :D**


	6. The Icy Lake

**Thank you, RestlessImaginator for the prompt! I do hope this chapter is alright by you. I kind of rushed through this one today in an effort to try to get the story updated as quickly as possible. Hopefully it isn't _too_ awful. :P**

* * *

"Tell me again why you've decided to stake out in a _tree_?" John asked bitterly.

"I told you, John," Sherlock said, "It's best to observe this woman's behaviour in hiding. You know just how dangerous she is."

"Yeah, but it's below zero out here and I'm covered in snow. I'm starting to lose feeling in my toes."

Sherlock shrugged.

"That sounds like a problem of your own. Now hush."

John sighed and rubbed his hands together, hoping the friction would warm him up somehow.

He peered through the many branches of the tree at the ground below him. Well, in truth there wasn't any ground. Just a frozen lake which John knew would most certainly break if he were to fall.

He heard a rustle come from his flatmate, followed by an irritated growl.

"No, not now!" Sherlock whispered.

John looked off into the distance and saw a red car leaving the cabin which he and Sherlock had been staring at for the past forty minutes.

"No, no, no!" Sherlock hollered.

John went to shush him, but found himself panicking when he saw his friend scrambling across a branch right over the frozen body of water.

"Sherlock, be careful!" he shouted.

Before Sherlock could respond, the branch began to crack.

Perhaps what John did next wasn't exactly the smartest idea. But then again, self-preservation wasn't what was on his mind.

He lunged for the detective in an effort to pull him back. The added weight caused the branch to snap completely off, and the two men went tumbling down.

After recovering from the shock of falling into an ice cold lake, Sherlock made his way to the surface, gasping as soon as he felt the cold, winter air on his face. He scrambled onto the part of the ice that wasn't broken and stood up shakily.

"Well, this is rather inconvenient," Sherlock said with a huff as he ruffled the extra water from his hair.

He had expected to hear his flatmate begin to tell him off for being so careless or for getting him drenched in icy lake water.

But there was not a sound.

"John?" Sherlock called.

He looked around, only to find that he was the only one standing on the patch of ice.

And the only one who had resurfaced.

He looked down at the hole which his and John's fall had created, leading into the murky depths of the lake.

"Oh no."

Quickly, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, made heavy by the water, and dove into the lake. It burned when he opened his eyes; the lake wasn't exactly the cleanest. But, nevertheless, he pushed through the unpleasant sensation, knowing that John was in serious trouble. If John hadn't resurfaced, that meant that he couldn't, whether that was the result of a head injury or restricted movement. It took far longer than Sherlock would have liked for him to find his flatmate. But finally, he saw a white jumper through the cloudy water.

John lay at the bottom of the lake, unconscious.

_Hit his head on the way in._

Sherlock wasted no time in swimming over and wrapping his arms around John. It was quite labor intensive, but Sherlock managed to pull John to the surface. Again, he gasped in a good amount of air once he had access to it again, and slid his friend up onto the undisturbed portion of the ice, crawling up after him.

"John!" he called, placing his frozen fingers on his friend's neck.

There was, to his relief, an active pulse, though it was quite slow and laboured.

Upon looking at John's chest, Sherlock noticed that he wasn't breathing.

He most certainly couldn't resuscitate John on the ice. That would be much too difficult, and he did not have time for difficulty.

Thankfully enough, Sherlock had picked a tree to hide out in earlier, meaning that the lake bank was nearby. He dragged John onto the snow, and, without much hesitation, began chest compressions on his friend.

_Thirty compressions. Thirty compressions_, he repeated to himself as he counted out loud.

John wasn't responding, much to Sherlock's dismay. The detective had hoped he wouldn't need to resort to mouth-to-mouth, as he felt that that would be a violation of John's personal space. But he figured that it would be silly of him to let John die due to his own discomfort.

So he proceeded to fixate his mouth over John's and breathed once into him.

Twice.

Sherlock barely had enough time to leap back and tilt John onto his side before the doctor began to choke up the water which he had earlier inhaled.

When John ceased his coughing, Sherlock rolled him back onto his back and took his pulse again.

_Skin is cold, pulse is slow, trembling, breathing is shallow and rapid. Hypothermia. More complications. Damn._

"John?" he called, this time a bit more gently.

John lazily opened his eyes, blinking in an attempt to adjust his eyes to the late afternoon light.

"Christ Sherl'," he muttered.

"It's alright. It's okay now."

John shivered and his teeth chattered.

"Hippoter..." he frowned. "H-hyp-po-"

"Yes, John, hypothermia is setting in. Not to mention the fact that you have a concussion. And possibly a cracked rib or two. I had to resuscitate you."

"G-greg..."

"Who?"

John rolled his eyes.

"L-lestath..."

"'Lestrade'?"

"Mhm."

"My phone is drenched in lake water. I have no way to contact him."

"I d-did."

"What? When?"

"Earl-lier."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Kn-knew w-we'd be in t-trouble 'ventually."

"We know trouble far too well, don't we?"

John chuckled, sending him into a coughing fit.

It took a minute before John's fit subsided, and he took a shaky breath and shivered.

"I's cold."

Sherlock mentally kicked himself. He forgot John was currently lying in the snow.

He looked out towards the distant road. It wasn't exactly close, but it was probably better to lay John down on the asphalt, rather than in the snow.

_How do I get him over there?_

Sherlock looked down at his flatmate.

_I'll carry him._

"John, can you walk?"

John let his head loll to the side and his eyes rolled back into his head.

_Unconscious again. Damn._

After a bit of thinking, Sherlock finally decided he would carry John bridal-style. John was too heavy to heave on one shoulder, so Sherlock had to distribute the weight.

First, Sherlock removed John's jacket, earning a disapproving groan from the unconscious man.

"I know you love this jacket, John, but if I keep it on you any longer, you're condition will only further deteriorate."

Once the soaked garment was removed, Sherlock scooped his flatmate up into his arms, grunting as he did so.

It was hard to carry a full-grown man through powdery snow, and Sherlock almost fell quite a few times, forcing him to clutch John even more tightly to his chest. John's skin was incredibly cold, and Sherlock knew that if Lestrade didn't arrive soon, John would only continue to get worse.

"Hang in there, John," Sherlock said.

Finally, the detective finally managed to reach the road with his burden, falling to his knees and laying John on the hard ground.

It was still so _bloody _cold.

"Hang on, John. Hang on."

Sherlock moved John's upper body into his lap and cradled him to his chest, hoping that close contact with another human being would help warm him up.

_Direct skin contact would be more effective._

Before Sherlock even had time to debate, he saw a flash of headlights in the distance.

_Let it be Lestrade._

To his relief, Lestrade pulled over in his squad car, hopping out almost immediately.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell happened?!" the D.I. yelled, rushing over to the two freezing men.

"We fell in the lake. John is hypothermic, concussed, and just about drowned." Sherlock began to shiver. "And I'm not entirely sure, but I may be developing a minor case of hypothermia as well."

"How the hell did you fall in?!"

"We were on a tree branch and it snapped."

"What were you doing in a tree?"

"Staking out, of course."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Christ. Okay. Let's get him in the backseat of the car."

Sherlock nodded and grabbed John beneath the arms while Lestrade grabbed hold of the ankles.

It took a bit of work, but the two men finally managed to get the unconscious doctor inside the car.

"Hold on," Lestrade said, once John and Sherlock were settled in.

He disappeared for a brief moment before returning with two orange blankets.

"You have those on hand?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

"Well they certainly come in handy, now, don't they?"

Lestrade handed one to Sherlock and draped the other over John.

It wasn't long before he had settled into the driver's seat. Upon looking in the rearview mirror, the D.I. sighed.

"The other blanket was for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock had apparently draped the second blanket over John on top of the first one.

"He needs it more than me, Lestrade."

Lestrade resisted the urge to smirk at the supposed sociopath's ability to show _some _level of concern.

"Whatever suits you, Sherlock. I'll take you guys to the hospital."

"And hurry. John's pulse isn't getting any faster."

Lestrade took a moment to start the car and put the gear into drive.

He paused.

"Where are your coats?"

"I left both mine and John's behind. They were soaked."

"Sherlock, what if she notices them?!" Lestrade shouted in reference to the woman under police surveillance.

"We'll get them later, Lestrade. Right now, John needs medical attention. I would prefer it if he didn't die."

Lestrade nodded.

"Right. Okay then. I'll turn the sirens on."

And the car sped away.

They were on the road for a bit before John began to stir again.

"Sh'lock? Wha...?" he whimpered, trying to sit himself up.

"Do stop moving, John. It will only make things worse," Sherlock said, gently holding John's shoulders to keep him still.

John stopped squirming and looked around.

"Mm. Car."

"Yes. That was good thinking on your part; calling Lestrade in advance. Usually I'd object to that decision, but in this case it proved most useful, considering the fact that our phones were destroyed by the water," Sherlock said, patting John on the chest.

"Phone? Jacket?" John knit his brow. "Y'coat?"

"I left them behind. The phones were shot anyway, my coat was too heavy, and yours was soaked through."

John pouted.

"'Spensive."

"I know, I know. Lestrade will come back for the coats. And we'll work out the phone situation later."

"Case?"

"Don't worry about that now. Just focus on warming up."

There was a brief moment of silence before John spoke again.

"Stupid."

"What?"

"I s-said to b-be careful."

Sherlock hung his head.

"I know."

"S'why we're in th-this mess."

"I know. I'm... I'm sorry."

John smirked.

"F-forget it. It'll b-be okay."

"I know."

"'Course y'do."

John closed his eyes again and nuzzled into Sherlock's lap, Sherlock absent-mindedly combing his fingers through the doctor's hair.

And there the boys stayed until they reached the hospital.

* * *

**Please leave a review! I really do enjoy getting all of your feedback! :D**


	7. A Bump on the Head

**So, I went kind of a different route for this prompt. CC recommended that John get hit on head and knocked out. So, I took that and... well, this is what I came up with. There is a bit of John whumpage, but this is a bit more of a touchy-feely chapter rather than straight-up whump. Hopefully you enjoy it still! :)**

* * *

John furiously scrubbed away at the green-looking slime that had crusted onto the inside of his bathroom sink. He wasn't entirely sure what it was, but he was certain that touching it without gloves would be categorised as a bad idea.

As he went to re-wet the sponge in his hand, he heard footsteps stop right outside the door.

"Good. You're home." He dropped the sponge in the bucket of soap at his feet and brushed himself off with an annoyed huff. "Now, do you mind explaining to me what the hell you've put in my sink?"

The detective at the door cocked his head at his flatmate, the corners of his mouth slightly twitching upwards into a sort of smirk.

"Are those Mrs. Hudson's gloves?" he asked, amused.

John felt his cheeks turn hot, and he clenched his hands together into tight fists.

"Yeah. They are. Yours were um... too big."

Sherlock wiped the hidden grin from his face with his hand and cleared his throat.

"Of course. What was the question?"

John shifted his feet slightly as he regained his composure.

"Right." Tightening his jaw, he pointed to the sink. "What the hell did you put in there?"

Sherlock sighed.

"It's nothing corrosive, if that's what you're worried about."

"Then what is it?"

"An experiment, obviously."

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah. I gathered that. What I meant was..." He looked at the detective's confused expression and sighed. "Never mind. Just... how's the case?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and began rapidly typing out a text, hardly having to pay attention to the screen. John was sure the man had the bloody keyboard memorised.

"Closed. It was quite predictable. You would have been bored out of your mind, much like me."

"Great to know you've been having fun."

"I detect a bit of sarcasm in that statement," Sherlock said as he dropped his phone back into his pocket.

John sniffed.

"Yeah, well, I'm still pissed that I have to clean up after you."

"You speak of me as if I were a dog."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a child, but whatever works for you."

"By the way, don't be alarmed if you find some of the contents of your sock drawer out of place."

John blushed, his brow furrowing.

"You rummaged through my sock drawer too?!"

"I did say there's no need to be alarmed."

"Christ!" John yelled, kicking over the bucket full of soapy water, the clang echoing off the tiled walls.

Sherlock winced.

"You just have _no_ respect for me or my privacy, do you?!" John shouted, his fists rapidly clenching and unclenching, causing the rubbery texture of the yellow gloves to squeak.

Sherlock, though unfaltering, seemed to draw back a bit.

"I really don't see why you're so upset, John."

"Because you have no respect for me whatsoever! It doesn't matter what I do or what I say; there you are to belittle me and humiliate me in your brilliant and fucking annoying 'Sherlock' way. There you are to pretend I'm your bloody skull because I'm too fucking boring for you or to put severed limbs in the refrigerator just to piss me off. There you are to disregard every bloody thing I say, even if it's a simple request! And what have I specifically asked you _not_ to do?"

"Never to go rummaging around in your room," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Exactly!" John shouted. "And what did you do?"

"I went rummaging around in your room."

"And Sherlock Holmes finally shows some humility! Good Lord! Have my prayers been answered?" John threw the rubber gloves into the bathtub.

Sherlock looked down at his feet, not daring to say a word.

All was quiet for a while.

John was the first to speak again. He started off with a sigh and sat down on the edge of the tub.

"Well... that felt good."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Yes, well... I had no idea that you felt so... strongly about the matter."

John chuckled a bit.

"_You_ having no idea? That's new."

Again, silence.

"Look, I... I guess I just wonder if you really give two shits about me. Or even one would be fine. I don't know, I mean... I don't know what I expected from you..."

"John..."

"You know what? I've fucked things up enough already. It's been a long day and I think we both could do with some-" as John started rushing out of the bathroom, he slipped on the puddle of soapy water that had spilled out of the bucket he had earlier kicked over, and he immediately fell backwards, his head bouncing off the tile with a loud crack.

"John?!" Sherlock said, rushing over to his flatmate.

Upon reaching his friend, he noticed that his eyes were closed.

"Oh, hell, look what you've gone and done now," he muttered. "John?" He lightly tapped John's cheek. "John, wake up. Can you hear me?"

John moaned a bit.

"Christ."

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, allowing him to support the rest of his flatmate's weight as he dragged him towards the bed. With a grunt, he dropped John onto the bed and adjusted him into a comfortable position.

"John?" he said again as he tapped on his friend's cheek.

Another moan.

"I'll be back," he said, tossing his coat and scarf to the side as he rushed downstairs and into the kitchen. There, he quickly fetched an ice pack from the freezer and the aspirin from the cabinet before running back up the stairs.

Upon reentering the bedroom, he rested both the bottle and ice pack on the nightstand and perched himself on the edge of the bed.

"John?" he called.

John's eyes lazily opened and he groaned.

"Light. Ow," he mumbled.

"Ah. One moment," Sherlock said, moving only to switch off the overhead light and turn on the one sitting on the end table. "Better?" he asked.

John nodded and groaned.

"Fuck. My head."

"Are you able to sit up?"

"Think so. One sec."

Slowly, John eased himself onto his elbows and pushed his back against the head of the bed.

Sherlock tentatively handed the ice pack to John who gladly took it, wasting no time in placing it on the back of his head.

"I've brought some aspirin up too in case you'll be wanting it."

John nodded, his eyes closed.

"Yeah. Thanks."

John sat for a few minutes icing his head, trying to keep his eyes closed in order to focus on dulling the pain. Sherlock remained quiet.

After about fifteen minutes, John took a deep breath and lifted the ice pack off his head with a hiss.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Can you hand me two pills? Please?"

"Certainly."

Sherlock unscrewed the cap of the aspirin bottle and shook out two pills, gently placing them in John's outstretched hand.

John hesitated to swallow them.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you positive this is aspirin?"

"What?"

"Is the bottle labelled?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course, John. I'm not *that* irresponsible."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Well I'm not!" Sherlock protested.

With a huff, John popped the two pills in his mouth, swallowing them both dry.

"Would you like some water?" Sherlock asked.

"That would be nice, thank you."

Sherlock was out and in again, returning with a glass of tap water from the kitchen.

"Here," he said, handing the glass to John.

After downing the drink, John set the glass and ice pack on the bedside table, leaning against the head of the bed with a sigh.

"Are you sure you don't need to ice it a bit longer?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

"I should take a break from it. About five, maybe ten minutes. Then I'll ice for a bit longer."

"Oh. Alright."

More silence.

"Sherlock..." John started, "I-"

"Say no more, John. I've heard your piece. I think it's about time I offered you mine."

John sat attentively.

"John, you're right. About everything," Sherlock said. "Since rephrasing is a bit redundant, I'll put it simply: I am an arse. That nicely sums up what you were saying. I am a disrespectful, pompous, genius who can't help but flaunt his skills any chance he gets. I'm not afraid to admit that, for that is all true, as unpleasant as it sounds and, truly, is. I am also a relentless sociopath, and proud of it, whose only outlets for the longest time were cocaine and experiments, and whose only friend was a skull. That, again, is all true."

John nodded.

"Then you came along," Sherlock said, "And you disrupted the routine. You changed everything. I was forced to constantly be in contact with another human being; someone who had emotions, thoughts, opinions, likes, dislikes, etcetera; all of which a skull, on its own, lacks. I apologise if, when speaking to you, I sounded resentful that you were present instead of the skull. It wasn't resent. It was simple absent-mindedness, you must understand, when you've adjusted yourself to constantly talking to an inanimate object for years, it becomes a habit."

John nodded.

"Yeah. I suppose so."

"Despite this habitual behaviour of talking to skulls and experimenting on random odds and ends, you still managed to catch my attention. I sincerely thought at first you'd simply be just a shadow in my day-to-day life, going about your business while you let me go about mine. But you showed me you actually cared. As if shooting a man for me the day after we met wasn't enough, you took time out of your schedule to insure that I was eating and sleeping and other trivial things like that. Perhaps that concern was simply coming from the medical man in you, but your care and concern for me has come full circle, and I've discovered that I care quite a lot about you. Perhaps I have a very strange way of showing it, going by what you told me. But don't ever question my loyalty to you. I have and always will care about you, John Hamish Watson. After all, you are the only friend I have."

John was completely silent, mouth slightly agape. Sherlock knitted his brow, slightly concerned.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

John closed his mouth and smiled, his eyes twinkling.

"Nope. Not at all."

He leaned in and wrapped Sherlock in his arms, squeezing him tightly.

Sherlock was dumbstruck for a moment, unsure of what to do. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around John, lightly squeezing, but progressively getting more and more comfortable with the position, allowing himself to squeeze a bit tighter.

The two sat like that for a while, cherishing the moment before John released his hold.

"That was borderline poetic. Where the hell did that come from?" he asked, the astonishment not having fully worn off.

Sherlock shrugged, still a bit shocked from the embrace.

John shook his head and smiled again.

"I'm not quite sure what to say now."

Sherlock smiled back.

"I suppose nothing more needs to be said about it." He stretched and yawned. "I suppose I'll help you clean up your sink in the morning."

"Damn right," John said with a yawn.

"Will you be alright for the night?"

"Luckily, I don't seem to have a concussion, so I think I'll be okay. My head'll just hurt like hell tomorrow."

"Right. Well, I suppose I ought to wish you a good night."

"Wait, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What did you snatch from my sock drawer?"

"I didn't 'snatch' anything. I was just curious."

John raised his eyebrow.

"About what, exactly? What did you expect to see in there?"

"I might be able to deduce your backstory, but that doesn't mean I know everything about who you are as a person. One's sock drawer can be very telling."

"Oh? And what could you tell?"

"Each pair of socks were hastily rolled up and thrown into the drawer, which tells me you like to get tasks, especially the more drab ones, done quickly; you like being productive, but not exactly thorough."

"Good."

"And furthermore-"

"I think that's enough deductions for now, thanks. My head's aching and I would really like to get to sleep."

Sherlock nodded.

"I understand. I'll see you in the morning, then."

As Sherlock started to walk out of the room, John called after him.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Go digging through my sock drawer again, and I'll make you a miserable man."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"Two words: Friendship bracelet."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Rest assured, I won't be going anywhere near your sock drawer."

"Or my sink."

"Right."

John smiled.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

* * *

**Please review! :D**


	8. Explosion

**Aaaaaand another chapter, ready for your reading pleasure. Kudos to Noms for the prompt.**

**Hopefully you enjoy this chapter! It was a bit rushed, I must admit. :/**

* * *

John tugged at the tight bonds secured around his wrists, aggravating his already screwed up shoulder and causing abrasions on his wrists.

_Leave it to me to get captured on a drug smuggling case. Bloody hell._

He looked down at the ties on his feet, trying to wiggle his ankles out of the tight grip they held. No such luck.

"Damn," he muttered.

He heard muffled conversation through the wooden door ahead of him.

In these situations, he always liked to think: _What would Sherlock do?_

Eavesdropping on the conversation seemed like a good idea at the moment, so he strained to listen.

_"You did what?!" _a gruff, but younger-sounding voice shouted. John winced a bit.

_"You told me to send a letter, didn't you?" _another voice said. An older man, from what John could hear, but not very bright.

_"Not in your own fucking handwriting! You've really fucked us over this time, you have!" _The younger one sounded cockney. Maybe from South East London?

_"Why is it such a big problem?"_ the older one asked. He had a more pronounced cockney accent.

_"'Cause you sent it to Sherlock bloody Holmes, the Yard's sniffer dog! He'll have us hunted down before it reaches bedtime. It don't help that we've got his little sidekick, either. We were gonna come out on the fucking top! We were gonna bribe him through anonymous letters, and we'd have stayed in business. But then you had to fuck it all up, didn't you?!"_

_"I'm sorry, alright?"_

_"Whatever. Well, we don't have any use for him anymore. Just do what I tell you and we'll still get out with our lives."_

_Shit._

John struggled a bit more, hoping that through some miraculous circumstances, he'd have enough of an adrenaline rush to break free of his bonds. He fought for about five minutes before the door in front of him was thrown open and the young cockney man was striding over to him, a needle in his hand. John tried pulling away, but the syringe found itself lodged in his neck. John tried not to panic.

"Sedative, mate. Nothing to worry about. Just close your little eyes, now. Sleep."

Who the hell was this man? And what was he going to do?

John felt his lids grow heavy.

"Let's get our asses in gear," John heard the man say.

Then everything went black.

* * *

Sherlock paced about the room.

John had been missing for exactly ten hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-eight seconds.

Was he dead? Injured? Currently being tortured?

Forty seconds.

Sherlock had already called Mycroft out of desperation. He needed to find John as quickly as possible.

What a fantastic job he was doing right now.

Forty-three seconds.

"Sherlock, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson? I'm rather busy at the moment!"

"A letter for you, dear! It hasn't got a return address on it!"

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, and he bolted down the stairs, snatching the paper from the landlady's hand.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed.

"How long has this been here?" he asked, tracing the paper delicately with trembling hands.

"I'm not quite sure. Probably since this morning."

Sherlock growled.

"Out, Mrs. Hudson. Out," he said, shooing the old woman away with his hand.

With a huff, Mrs. Hudson retreated into her flat and shut the door, leaving Sherlock to deduce the letter.

_Hastily folded, no envelope, old parchment paper._

He opened the letter and sniffed the contents.

_Musty; it's been in storage for quite a long time. Ink smells quite strong. Letter recently written. Pen brand new?_

He looked at the letter.

_No. Old. Ink has been nearly used up. Breaks in letters, the pattern of which indicates that the tip of the pen ran dry on more than one occasion. The style of pen would make smudging rather difficult for those with small hands, however there are multiple smudges on the blank side of the letter from when it had been folded. Man. Older (judging by the few wrinkles evident in the fingerprints), buffer, and dimwitted. He obviously had no intention to deliberately lead me to his place of business. He obviously has a partner; otherwise, I would have found John much sooner._

Sherlock smirked inwardly.

"This has made things incredibly easy."

He lifted the letter to the light and squinted at it, taking in its texture, transparency, and wear.

_Been in storage for quite a few years. Warehouse, then. Letter was hand-delivered. The man is nearby, but not within the city; his partner wouldn't risk that. The closest warehouse outside of London is about a forty minute drive._

Sherlock grinned.

There was no need to read the letter. He knew exactly where John was.

He immediately drew out his cell and phoned Lestrade.

_"Sherlock? That you?"_

Sherlock sighed. Lestrade was always wont to ask pointless questions.

"Yes, of course it's me. Shut up and stop talking for a moment. I know where John is.*

_"Christ. Shit's all happening at once. Where, Sherlock?"_

He sounded stressed.

"You are familiar with the old warehouse just outside of London, correct? Abandoned for about three years?"

Lestrade went dead silent.

"Well are you or aren't you? Time is of the essence!"

_"Sherlock..."_

The man's tone was quiet and dead serious, and Sherlock was immediately unnerved.

_"We just got a call from residents who live not too far off from there. They told us it's been blown up."_

Sherlock's already pale face turned even paler, and he felt his breathing stop altogether.

_"Sherlock? Are you still there?"_

"Drive me."

* * *

John slowly opened his eyes. His head was throbbing immensely, and he felt slightly nauseous.

He wiggled his wrists a bit, and found that the ropes binding them were a bit loose. Hope surged through his veins as he continued to wiggle a bit, feeling the ropes starting to loosen even more.

His eyelids still felt quite heavy and he blinked a few times, trying to get rid of the tired sensation.

He wiggled a bit more, when finally the ropes fell to the floor.

He wasted no time in bending down and untying the ropes holding his ankles in place. His fingers were still a bit clumsy from the sedative he had been given, but he managed to free himself. He immediately stood up, welcoming the warm feeling of circulation throughout his legs and arms and stretching out.

God he felt like hell.

But the first order of business was to get the fuck out of there.

Unsurprisingly, it seemed, the door was left unlocked, making that bit a hell of a lot easier than it might have been.

_Okay. Step Two. Get home._

John heard a car revving and a loud 'Fuck' coming from outside.

He scanned the floor, looking desperately for a makeshift weapon. His eyes locked onto a jagged, rusty metal bar.

_It'll have to do._

He carefully picked up the instrument and slowly made his way out to the front. Around the corner in the side lot, there were two men, one of which had been the one to give John the sedative, the other a burlier man sitting in the driver's seat, working quickly on trying to get an old, red car started.

"Fuck me!" the young man shouted. "Come on, Bernie, keep on it! Actually start up the fucker!"

Through the open window, the burly man, Bernie, responded:

"I'm trying! She won't! I'm turning the keys right!"

"Shit, Bernie, then fucking hot-wire the thing! We need to get the hell out of here!"

John, seeing an opening, charged towards the vulnerable younger man and pounced on him.

"You aren't going anywhere," he said, choking the man with one hand.

"Shit," the guy choked out. "Buildin's... gonna... ack!"

John loosened his grip.

"What? What are you saying to me?"

From inside the car, Bernie gasped and frantically opened the door,

"I left my gun!" he yelled, sprinting back into the building.

"No!" the man beneath John screeched. He threw John to the side and got back on his feet, starting to run after his comrade. "No, you idiot! What the fuck are you doing?! Leave it! This warehouse's gonna fucking blow!"

John's face drained of all colour.

Of course.

He was torn; the doctor and soldier in him knew he needed to save who could be saved, and that currently was the man running after his friend into a building that was going to explode at any second. Of course, said man wasn't a very _good_ man, but he hadn't really done anything wrong. Well, in the case of homicide, at least.

Before John could even start running to the man, he heard a rumbling come from the building. And he immediately turned himself around and started to run away.

He couldn't get very far before a deafening explosion sounded behind him, jolting him forward as its flames licked at his back. John hit the ground with a thud, immediately losing consciousness.

* * *

Sherlock's foot tapped impatiently on the rubber floor mat in front of him.

Couldn't this car go any faster?

Lestrade was talking to whoever was currently on speaker phone. Sherlock knew it had something to do with the explosion, but all he could think was _John, John, John._

A tap on his shoulder brought him to attention.

"Sherlock?"

He shook his head a bit.

"Yes? What? What is it?"

"Just letting you know they got the fires all put out. They're digging through the rubble, now. I've got a few of my officers specifically looking for John."

Sherlock nodded and looked out the window.

_They have to find him. Alive._

Lestrade laid a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It'll all be okay, mate. I pro-"

"How long until we arrive?"

Lestrade sighed.

"About fifteen minutes."

"Good. Drive faster."

* * *

The car barely had a chance to come to a complete stop before Sherlock hopped out and ran over to the scene.

"What have you found?" he asked, frantically, grabbing one of the officers by the shoulders.

The young officer looked taken aback, unsure of what to say.

"I- uh-"

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake, let her go!" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the arm and pulled him away.

"I need to know, Lestrade!"

"You _will_ know, I'm sure. But don't go assaulting every officer you see just to get information they probably don't have!"

Sherlock wrenched his arm out of Lestrade's grip and sniffed.

Just then, Sergeant Donovan came running over to the pair of men.

"Sir!" she called out.

She came to a full stop in front of Lestrade and took a deep breath.

"Sir, they..." She looked over at Sherlock, but not with her usual bitter stare. Her eyes seemed almost... sad. She continued. "They've found two bodies. One of them we assume was a smuggler."

"And the other?" Sherlock asked.

Sally hesitated a bit.

"We have no clue. We found most of the other one kind of spread out around the place."

Sherlock could've vomited right then and there.

"But we found the head mostly intact. We waited to examine it so that way you could have a look."

Sherlock nodded, his stomach turning.

"Of course. Yes. Where is the, um... the, ah, head?"

"We've left it where it's at. Just throw on some gloves before you touch it."

"Thank you... Sally."

Donovan gave a slight nod and walked back over to where other officers were looking.

"Come on, mate. Let's go have a look," Lestrade said, taking Sherlock by the arm and leading him into what little was left of the warehouse.

"Is she one of the ones you've assigned to look for John?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade nodded.

"Yep. She didn't try to get out of it, either. Despite what she says, I think she gives a shit about you."

The two men stopped beside the taped off area. Frustratedly, Sherlock tore away the blue tape and stepped through.

Laying on the ground, he saw a charred, human head, features completely unrecognisable.

Sherlock took a deep breath and snapped on the latex gloves in his pocket. He nudged the body part slightly, trying to get a better look.

Far too unrecognisable. Even for him.

"Is it him?" Lestrade asked.

"I can't tell, Lestrade. Dammit, I can't tell!" Sherlock ruffled his hair.

"It's okay, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "It'll be okay."

"No it's not! It is not okay!" Sherlock yelled, jumping to his feet. "This may or may not be my flatmate's head, and the high chances of it being so are far from 'okay'!"

"Sherlock, calm down," Lestrade said, quietly.

"I will not calm down, Lestrade! If this is John, then John is dead and it's my fault! If it isn't John, then John is missing somewhere, maybe whisked away to a new location, and that is also my fault! I've lost him either way!"

Lestrade rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock..."

"Oi! Freak!"

Was that Donovan?

"Donovan, what the hell?!" Lestrade shouted at her.

"We've found Doctor Watson."

Sherlock could have cried. Lestrade nodded for him to go, and the detective was off and following Donovan who took him to an area at the far end of the side-lot of the warehouse, where Sherlock saw a group of officers working around a pile of rubble. He quickly jogged over to the group and helped them lift away the car door which he assumed was trapping his flatmate. There were a few stray wood pieces and some brick dust that remained after the door had been thrown to the side, but brushing it away revealed John Watson, laying unconscious on the ground.

"Help me move him," he commanded the officers behind him. "Now!"

Two others helped in lifting John out of the pile and onto the ground next to it. Sherlock then shooed them away, and was left to examine his friend.

The first thing that caught his eyes was the amount of exposed flesh on John's back.

_Tried running away. Got blown a few feet. Head impacted with ground first. Burns look painful. Poor John. My poor blogger. Not dead, though. Focus on the not dead part._

He tentatively reached out a hand to touch John's burned back, the heat of the injuries radiating off of his flatmate like a heater.

_Infected, probably. Upon closer inspection, there is a great amount of grit within the worser parts of the burns. Poor, poor John._

Without much thought, Sherlock then moved his fingers up to John's neck, feeling around for a pulse. Feeling the beat beneath his fingertips reminded Sherlock that John was not only in one piece but also _alive_.

"Shit," he heard Lestrade say behind him. "He looks awful."

"Helpful as usual, Lestrade," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice from breaking.

"Move back, mate. The paramedics need some room."

Sherlock complied and stood up, letting the few EMTs move past him with a gurney and lift John onto it.

"I'll drive you to the hospital, alright?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded.

_John is alive. John is alive. John is alive._

* * *

"I must say, Doctor Watson, you got quite lucky."

John shifted in bed, trying to make himself a bit more comfortable.

"Yeah. I guess so."

"The only severe burns were on your back. The rest are relatively minor and should heal up on their own. You have got four cracked ribs, one broken one, and a concussion. But a few days in the hospital will have you as right as rain, right?"

John nodded.

"Good. Well, the call button's there if you need anything. Try to get some rest." The doctor smiled and walked out of the room.

"I thought he'd never leave," Sherlock said from his place next to John's bed.

"Am I seriously the only medical man you actually listen to?" John said, rolling his eyes.

"I listened to him. Partially."

"Well, in case you missed anything, I'll sum it up for you: I'm going to be here for another few days, and I'm gonna want to kill somebody afterwards. I added that part."

Sherlock sighed.

"Wonderful. I'll be bored senseless."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You can go home. I'll be fine on my own."

"No. I'd rather stay."

John noticed how distant Sherlock seemed. Even more distant than usual.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

At first, this elicited no response.

"Sherlock?" he asked again.

"No."

John knitted his brow.

"What? Why?"

Sherlock's stolid composure broke instantly, and he was trembling all over again.

"John, I thought that head that we found was _you_. I thought you were... God I didn't know what to do."

John reached out for the man, his hand outstretched.

Sherlock looked at the appendage confusedly.

"Christ, take my hand and make this a bit easier on me, will you?" John said, sounding a bit tired.

Sherlock grabbed his hand.

"I'm not dead. I'm quite alive and will be as good as new pretty soon. I'm fine," John reassured him.

Sherlock nodded and swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat.

"By the way," John said, "That head in the warehouse probably belonged to that other smuggler's friend. Bernie, I think his name was."

Sherlock had forgotten about the smugglers.

"Case closed, then."

"Yep."

Sherlock squeezed his friend's hand.

"I'm sorry I didn't reach you sooner."

John chuckled.

"The worse they did was blow up a perfectly good warehouse with some perfectly good drugs. They hardly touched me. All they really did to me was give me a bit of a sedative."

Sherlock sighed.

"Jesus."

"You know, I kind of feel bad for them. They weren't exactly the smartest men. Probably never hurt anyone."

"They had the intention of killing _you_."

"Yeah, okay; other than leaving me to die in there, they hadn't killed anyone yet."

"They did end up hurting you, though. And that is absolutely unacceptable."

"Too bad they died before you had a chance to kill them," John said, jokingly.

"I would have."

John laughed.

"No, you wouldn't have."

"Yes. I would have," Sherlock said, quite serious.

"Really?"

"No one lays a finger on my blogger."

John smiled and Sherlock smiled back.

"Sorry I gave you a scare," John said.

"You've done so on more than one occasion. I don't think I can take many more scares."

"Then I'll try to be more careful."

"You'd better."

The two men smiled at each other once more.

"I'll need a new jumper. That explosion really did mine in," John said with a pout.

"We'll pick up a new one. Maybe a nicer one."

"You didn't think my other one was nice?"

"Face it John; that one was hideous."

John frowned.

"You have a dreadful bedside manner, you know that?"

"What more did you expect from me?" Sherlock smirked.

John chuckled.

"You're an idiot."

"So are you."

"I guess we can both be idiots together, then."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

**I do love reviews! I could also do with more suggestions, so keep them coming! :D**


	9. Junkyard Dogs

**I'm so glad you all are loving this story so much! :D**

**Anyway, here's another one-shot for you! I got this prompt from two Authors: Capybara and Zealister.**

**Hope you like it!**

* * *

"So, what's the plan here?" John asked as he stepped out of the cab after Sherlock and shut the door.

"Get in and get out as quickly as possible. Just don't get caught."

John let out a sigh.

"I can't believe I'm spending Saturday night scouring a bloody junkyard for a pocket watch that may or may not even be there."

"Oh, you've done much worse."

"Whatever. Where am I to be stationed, then?" John asked as he zipped up his jacket to block out the cold.

"I'll take the front half. You take the back," Sherlock said, clarifying himself with a point of his finger.

John nodded.

"Alright. Do you have your gun on you?"

Sherlock shook his head, earning an eye roll from his companion.

"Christ, Sherlock. Here." John handed the detective his Browning. "Just be careful with it, alright?"

Sherlock took the weapon with some slight hesitation.

"Are you sure you won't be needing it?"

"I'd rather you have it than me."

Sherlock gave him a sort of confused look.

"Oh. Okay. Fine then," he said, almost phrasing it as a question. "Let's advance."

After entering the dark yard, the two friends split off into their designated areas, Sherlock heading into a junk shed and John heading over to a pile near the back.

John groaned when he saw the enormous piles of rubbish surrounding him. It took him back to that case involving the Black Lotus Gang, when he and Sherlock spent hours digging through bins upon bins of books to trying to solve the case. He supposed this case would be a lot similar, but a lot more time consuming.

And a lot smellier.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"You owe me, Sherlock. Big time," he mumbled as he headed over to a trash pile.

He had only been rustling through the piles for about twenty minutes when he saw something glisten behind a large piece of metal. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was the pocket watch they were looking for. And he couldn't help but sigh out of relief.

With two hands, he gripped onto the metal blocking it and began to pry it out of the way, giving him just enough room to snatch the watch and stick it in his pocket.

And that's when the whole pile came crashing to the ground on top of him.

Fortunately, he managed to dodge most of the rubble, but found his leg pinned beneath a large portion of it.

From what he could tell, it wasn't broken. Just trapped. And he knew he might need some assistance. He considered calling out to Sherlock until he heard growling. Looking straight ahead of him, he saw two ferocious-looking German Shepherds coming his way, one with a red collar and one with a black one, baring their teeth and looking to kill.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck," he whispered.

He knew calling for Sherlock would only draw more attention to himself, so that was out of the question. And if he started struggling to worm his way out of the wreckage, that would be just as ineffective.

But maybe less so.

God, how he wished he had saved his Browning.

With a deep breath, John started to wiggle his trapped leg through the rubble, and felt something give way. It felt like he could maybe slide it free.

The dogs were still approaching somewhat slowly, as if trying to make a game out of the whole thing. It looked like John was home-free.

Until the dogs started running.

Frantically, John tried to drag himself out of the rubble. Just as his foot slid through and he got onto his feet, he felt sharp teeth grab a hold of that very same foot, sending him back down to the ground with a crash.

"Shit!" he cried out.

He tried to kick the dog off, but found the other one with the red collar was lunging for his shin. He quickly swept his leg out of the way, kicking red collar in the head in the process. This angered the dog and caused him to go for John's face. The doctor gave a strangled cry as teeth scraped across his face.

A shot rang out.

The hound that was mauling his face fell to the ground.

Another shot.

The other dog fell.

And all was quiet.

John brought his hand up to his face. When he took it away, he found it had been covered in blood. His blood.

He moaned and went to sit up, but found that there were hands restraining his movement.

"Stay still, John. For the love of God, stay still!" a voice shouted at him.

It sounded so far away, and John could have sworn it was Sherlock who had spoken to him.

"Wha..."

"You idiot! I knew you should have kept your gun!"

The voice sounded panicked and scared. So very scared.

"John, tell me what to do."

John let out a breath.

"Right. Right, m'kay. Okay. Ow. Shit, okay. Okay. Alright. Help me up, will you?"

Those same hands supported his back and chest and helped him into a sitting position. Upon closer inspection, John realised that those hands did indeed belong to Sherlock.

"What now, John?"

"Hospital," John moaned.

Sherlock nodded and helped John stand, draping his arm around his shoulders.

"We'll get a cab," Sherlock said.

And he dragged his companion to the road.

* * *

"So yeah, the worst you'll have in terms of long-term effects is a lot of scarring," the doctor said, flipping through the sheets on his clipboard. "Let's see; broken ankle, black eye, yada yada yada..." He set the clipboard down with a loud clack. "In short, Mr. Watson, you'll be just fine. It was lucky that your friend here got to you in time, though. Those dogs are notorious for ripping people's throats out."

John sighed.

"Thanks. I'm perfectly aware of that. Can I go now?"

The doctor nodded.

"Yep. Once you get your clothes on, you and your boyfriend can head out. Just remember to keep off that ankle for a while."

John nodded.

"Yeah, I know. I'm a doctor."

"Of course. Get well, Doctor."

"And he's not my boyfriend!"

The doctor just strode out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Well, someone's grumpy," Sherlock said from the chair across the room.

"And you deduced that, did you?" John said, as annoyed as ever.

"Even Anderson could have made that deduction. You weren't really making any effort to conceal your irritation."

John huffed.

"Whatever. You're right, as usual."

"You made quite a mess back at the junkyard," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah. No shit, Sherlock," John grumbled. "Mind handing me my pants?"

Sherlock nodded and grabbed John's clothes, handing them over to the good doctor.

"Thanks," John said.

"So," Sherlock said, "How are you... you know...?"

"'Feeling'?"

"Yeah."

"Pretty shitty, and in need of a good cup of tea."

There was a moment of silence as John slipped on his pants beneath his hospital gown.

"Oh, and by the way," John said as he dug through his pocket, "Here's the watch."

He drew out a golden pocket watch and handed it to the detective.

"You found it?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

John nodded.

"Yeah. Digging it out is what caused the rubbish pile to topple over."

Sherlock took the shiny piece of clockwork in his hand, feeling the grooves of its case graze over his skin.

John stood awkwardly as Sherlock fumbled with the watch.

"Ah, yeah, so... there you are. Now, if you don't mind helping me onto my crutches after I get my shirt on, we'll be able to get home quickly."

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course."

As soon as John slipped off the gown, Sherlock's eyes immediately locked onto John's left shoulder. The pale scar that resided there was what really stood out.

John caught Sherlock staring and cleared his throat.

"Having fun deducing?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted back over to John.

"You dug it out yourself, didn't you?"

John was momentarily caught off guard, but sighed and nodded.

"Yeah. Had to."

"Why?"

"I had to help other soldiers. Having a bullet in my arm would have made things a lot more difficult."

John rested his hands on the observation table, tightly gripping the edge.

"I mean, I could only help so many before I passed out." He looked down at the floor. "Poor Murray..." he whispered.

"'Murray'?"

"Did I say that?"

"Yes. Who was he? A fellow soldier, I presume."

John nodded.

"Yeah, he... he was a kid. Well, not really. He was twenty-two; eighteen when he enlisted. Still young, though."

"Were you two close?"

John shrugged.

"I guess you could say that. I mean, I sort of looked after him. Made sure he didn't get himself killed."

"Why him?"

"I suppose I saw a little bit of myself in him. I don't really know. He and I just really enjoyed talking to each other. We bonded. He was a good kid."

Sherlock pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.

"What happened?"

"On the field, Murray was shot. I ran out to help him. The bullet had hit the right ventricle of the heart. I knew he was a dead man, but God, I wanted to try to save him. And I did. I tried so damn hard. Another bullet hit me in the shoulder, but I didn't really notice. All I could see was blood. Murray's blood. So much of it. Christ..."

John felt an arm go around his shoulder. Looking to his side, he saw Sherlock sitting there, looking at him, his eyes soft and comforting.

Sherlock saw the confusion and alarm in John's face and he tensed up.

"Is this not okay? I'm only trying to comfort you. I've seen others do this."

John gave an amused smirk.

"No, no. It's fine. Sorry. It was just unexpected."

Sherlock nodded. He looked disapprovingly at John's face.

"Now _that's_ making me uncomfortable. What are you doing?"

"You'll have scars."

"Yeah, well; being mauled by two giant-ass dogs will do that to you. But I'll take scarring and a fucked up ankle over a punctured jugular any day. By the way, I never thanked you."

Sherlock frowned.

"What have you to thank me for? If I hadn't taken your Browning, if we hadn't split up, if I hadn't brought you along, you wouldn't even have scars or a mangled foot in the first place."

"Don't blame yourself for every bloody thing that happens to me, Sherlock. You did nothing wrong. If you recall, _I_ demanded that you take my Browning."

"Yes, but-"

"It's not your fault, you git. I'll take the blame for this one. I should have been more careful."

Sherlock wanted to further debate the subject, but he figured such a task was fruitless.

"Very well," he reluctantly agreed.

John smiled.

"Good. Now, if you don't mind letting me put a shirt on..."

Sherlock blushed a bit, realising that John was still quite topless.

"Oh. Right. Of course. Go ahead." And he hopped down from the table.

As John stretched to put his ruined jumper over his head, he hissed in pain.

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asked, slightly panicked.

"It's alright. I just think one of those things scratched me. Not a big deal."

Sherlock nodded, allowing John to finish dressing.

"Mind passing those over to me?" John asked him, gesturing to the crutches leaning against the wall.

Sherlock nodded and handed them over to John who quickly got himself adjusted and ready to go.

"Okay. Lead the way," John said. "I'm ready to get home."

"I concur," Sherlock stated as he grabbed his belongings. "How does Chinese sound tonight?"

John grinned.

"Amazing."

Sherlock smiled at his friend and opened the door.

"After you, Doctor Watson."

With a gracious nod, John hopped through the doorway and down the hall, his flatmate following behind him.

* * *

**I already have so many prompts to work with, but I could always use some more! :)**


	10. Accidental Overdose

**Phew! Sorry that took so long! I have so many prompts to work with, but I have no idea how to go about writing them. If yours hasn't shown up yet, hopefully it will in the near future.**

**Anyways, thanks to Rose0 for the prompt! **

**Hopefully you all enjoy it!**

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called out as he stepped through the door of 221B.

There was no answer.

John liked to think that meant the detective wasn't currently home, but he knew that a lack of response typically meant that Sherlock was in; he just wasn't paying much attention.

With a sigh, John crept up the stairs, rubbing at his aching shoulder. He stepped through the door into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?" John called again, scanning the area.

He made sure to check the detective's usual spots, but all came up vacant, save the dust that had settled over time.

God they needed to dust.

Assuming Sherlock wasn't in his bedroom, John walked over to the coat rack and hung his satchel up on its designated hook, groaning as he lifted his left arm.

"Painkillers," he mumbled, trudging through the kitchen and into the bathroom.

He swiftly opened the medicine cabinet and snatched his orange bottle of pills from the second shelf. He struggled with the lid, resenting the fact that careless children had forced pharmacists to design impossible-to-unscrew lids., but finally managed to pop it off and retrieve two pills from the bottle.

"Thank Christ," John sighed.

He filled up a small plastic cup that also resided in the medicine cabinet with tap water and washed down the pills.

After putting everything back in its proper place, John walked back into the kitchen. He hesitantly reached his hand out toward the refrigerator handle and slowly pulled the door open, almost retching at the severed head in front of him.

"For God's sake!" he cried out, slamming the door shut. "I just want a bloody sandwich!"

With a frustrated grunt, he slipped his jacket off and flung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and rolled up his sleeves.

_I'm hoping he hasn't stuck fingers in my kettle._

He was relieved to find the teakettle untouched and just as clean as he had left it. Placing it under the kitchen faucet, he turned on the tap. As soon as it began to fill with water, John simultaneously felt a wave of vertigo hit him with the force of a steamroller. He gripped the kitchen counter for support as he tried to ward of the nausea and dizziness.

_What the hell?_

He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. The dizziness only worsened, and his head started pounding.

"I should lie down…" he said, startled at his own slurred speech.

He figured he must have picked up some sort of nasty bug some time during the past week. He considered for a brief moment taking medicine of some kind, but he decided that mixing drugs wouldn't be the best plan. He clumsily turned off the tap and let the kettle sit where it was before he stumbled over to the couch and plopped himself down on the cushions.

"I'll close my eyes for a bit."

With a long exhale, he laid himself down, resting his throbbing head on the satin pillow.

"Twenty minutes…" he mumbled.

It didn't take long before he passed out.

* * *

_Arrest stepmother. –SH_

_Anderson thinks otherwise._

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_Tell Anderson to bugger off, then. –SH_

No wonder Lestrade was the only man he could tolerate. He was the only one at the Yard who had any faith in him at all. And even then, Sherlock could barely stand the man for more than an hour at a time.

The detective's long strides had him back at Baker Street in less than fifteen minutes; hardly impressive if he knew himself well enough.

Upon examining the front door, he noticed that the knocker had been adjusted so that it was completely vertical, suggesting that John had arrived home safely. The lock, however, looked as if it had been hastily and clumsily opened.

_He used his right hand. Shoulder particularly painful._

He looked up at the sky.

_No wonder. The humidity is rather high today. That tends to bother him._

Ah well. It didn't really matter much. John had his painkillers, so all was well.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, Sherlock reached their flat quite quickly, removing his coat and scarf with a grand flourish and draping them over the coatrack.

"John?" he called. "John, have you made tea?"

He peered into the kitchen and found it rather empty. In fact, it was uncomfortably silent.

"John?"

Stepping further into the kitchen, his eyes caught locked onto a rather unsettling sight.

The kettle sat in the sink, half full of water.

Something was very, very wrong.

"John, where are you?" Sherlock called out, trying to hide the worry that he felt.

He was disturbed at the lack of response. John was obviously home. He never napped. His hearing was just fine. What was wrong? Where was he? Why wasn't he responding?

"John!"

He turned back into the sitting room and went to call his flat mate's name again, when he saw a limp figure lying on the couch.

It was most definitely John.

Sherlock strode over to the doctor and was alarmed at the sight of a small amount of dried vomit lingering on the corner of his mouth and covering his shoulder.

Sherlock felt his heart start to race as he gripped onto his friend's clean shoulder and shook him.

"John, wake up!" he yelled.

John was just as limp as he looked, completely unresponsive to Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock quickly brought to fingers to his friend's neck, desperately feeling for a pulse. He was relieved to find one weakly pumping beneath his cool fingertips. He brought a hand to his friend's head, unnerved when he found it covered in beads of sweat.

This wasn't an illness. This was something more sinister.

_Think, Sherlock, think! What on earth could be causing this? Let's see: aching shoulder would cause John to want to take his usual dosage of painkillers. Did he take too much? No, no, he's a doctor, he would never make that mistake. He would also never mix medication. This seems to be an overdose, though. What the hell?! _

"John, what did you take?!" Sherlock yelled at his unconscious friend.

_Of course he won't respond, idiot. Think! Perhaps John unintentionally grabbed the wrong bottle in his haste to dull the pain. Maybe-_

Oh.

OH.

"The experiment!" the detective cried.

He had completely forgotten.

_Stupid, stupid!_

He quickly grabbed his phone and dialed Lestrade's number, absent-mindedly keeping his hand protectively on John's chest.

"_Good news! You were right. Surprise, surprise,"_ Lestrade said as soon as he picked up.

"I don't care right now, Lestrade! I need an ambulance at Baker Street _right now_!"

"_What?! Why?"_

"John's overdosed on opium. He looks to have taken it about fifteen minutes ago. There's still time, Lestrade, but there's only so much. I need-"

"_Opium? Why in the hell-"_

"It's my fault. I need an ambulance here in no more than five minutes! Tell the operator that, or so help me I will set your house on fire!"

"_Alright, alright! Jesus Christ… okay, make sure you get John to vomit up whatever he's got left in his stomach, and-"_

"I know what to do!"

Sherlock immediately hung up, throwing his phone on the floor. He wasted no time in shoving two fingers down John's throat. As John started to retch, Sherlock tilted him onto his side, supporting him with his arm. As John's vomiting turned into nothing but a dry heave, he went limp again and lazily opened his eyes.

"Sh'lock?"

"John, stay still. An ambulance will be here soon."

"Why're you here?"

"What?"

"S'him. Y'll get hurt."

"What are you saying, John?"

"Sh… Sherlock!" John screamed, clutching onto the man's shirt for dear life.

"John, stop! It's alright! You aren't in the war anymore!"

"Sherlock!" John screamed again, his throat hoarse from all of the retching.

"John, please! It's okay! It's alright!" Sherlock grabbed John's face in between his hands. "It's just a hallucination, John."

John's breathing, labored as it was, was rapid, causing him to gasp and choke for air.

"Calm down, John. It's okay. You'll be fine. There's no war anymore. No one is going to hurt you."

John's dilated pupil's fixated on the man's face.

"S'not the war. S'him."

"What?"

"Him!" John cried.

Sherlock hesitated before answering.

"Moriarty?"

John nodded rapidly, choking on his breathing.

Sherlock brushed a stray hair out of his friend's face.

"He isn't here, John. No one is here. No one is going to hurt you," Sherlock said, gently.

John's eyes brimmed with tears as he struggled to breathe.

"He's gonna hurt you, Sherl…"

Sherlock froze at this.

"John…"

"M'scared."

Sherlock shushed him. "I know, John, I know. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault," Sherlock combed his fingers through John's hair. "But you'll be fine. I promise."

_Where is that damn ambulance?!_

"Sh'lock…" John whimpered before falling unconscious again.

The sirens couldn't have come a moment too soon.

* * *

Sherlock's fingers drummed away on the arm of the hard, plastic waiting room chair. He watched impatiently as hospital staff walked past in their pristinely white shoes with clipboards and medical carts in tow.

He felt a hand grip his arm, causing his fingers to abruptly still.

"Are you ready to talk to me?" Lestrade asked, his eyes bloodshot and tired.

"Long day, Graham?" Sherlock asked insincerely, his mouth twisted into a sarcastic sneer.

"What?"

"I do hope you had fun with your date last night. Oh, sorry. That was rather insensitive of me to suggest, wasn't it? She obviously had no interest in you, but you did her. Blind dates are a really risky thing. I would avoid them in the future. That's simply a suggestion."

"Sherlock…"

"You smell strongly of aftershave and cheap coffee. A bit depressed, then? Not really in the mood to keep up appearances? Obviously you aren't looking to impress. She let you down hard, then. She already has a boyfriend, am I wrong?"

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"No, but-"

"You really ought to wipe the mustard stain from the corner of your mouth. It's bothering me."

The D.I. glared at the consulting detective, letting a few moments pass before he spoke again.

"Are you done being a jackass?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Then can I ask you what the hell happened back at Baker Street?"

Sherlock stared blankly at the clock.

"Sherlock?"

"Yesterday I was preparing an experiment involving the use of opium pills. Particularly potent ones. I was out of storage options, so I decided that I would put the pills in one of the bottles in the medicine cabinet. I grabbed John's bottle of painkillers with out thinking."

"So you just dumped the opium pills in with John's?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade an indignant look.

"Of course not! I made sure to place John's pills in a sandwich bag before placing the opium in."

Lestrade nodded.

"And you told him?"

Sherlock went silent.

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake, you didn't tell him?" the D.I. asked in disbelief.

"In my head I did…"

"Sherlock!"

"I said it was my fault, didn't I?!"

"That doesn't make things right, Sherlock!"

"I know that! All I can do now, though, is hope that the odds are better than what is statistically most probable. I would rather John not die so ungracefully. He deserves more than that."

Lestrade sighed and patted the detective's shoulder.

"I know he does. Look, I'm sure he'll pull through, though, alright? John's strong. You know that."

"I know."

"And he wouldn't die without having the chance to scold your ass," he smirked.

Sherlock resisted the urge to chuckle.

There was more silence as nurses and doctors bustled through the hallway.

"John thought Moriarty was going to hurt me."

"What?"

"He was hallucinating. He saw Moriarty. He thought he was going to harm me."

"Christ."

"I've never seen him so panicked," Sherlock said, more to himself than to Lestrade.

The D.I. smiled.

"He really does care about you, Sherlock. You know that." He saw Sherlock's brow knit in confusion. "Don't you?"

"I suppose so. I just never thought that…"

"You never thought he'd value your life just as much as you value his?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Wasn't that obvious enough when he shot the cabbie for you?"

Sherlock looked alarmed.

"You _know?_"

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"I'm not _that _inept. You weren't exactly nonchalant when that happened. I saw your face when you looked at him across from you. I could tell you figured out it was him that shot the guy."

Sherlock looked back at the wall in front of him.

"Oh."

"I figured I wouldn't say anything. I mean, he killed him, but against my better judgment, I said "what the hell" and decided to drop it. I could tell you needed him, just as much as he needed you. I wasn't about to fuck things up. You two really are right for each other."

"Yes. I suppose we are," Sherlock admitted, pondering the matter.

Just then, a doctor walked over to the two men.

"Are you with Mr. Watson?" the woman asked.

Sherlock stood and nodded.

"Yes, of course. Is he alive?"

The doctor smiled.

"Well, it took some work, but he'll be just fine."

Sherlock's knees felt weak from relief.

"We've currently got him hooked up to a ventilator, but we think he'll be fine to breathe without it tomorrow."

The detective nodded.

"May I see him?"

"It depends; are you family?"

"He's Doctor Watson's boyfriend," Lestrade chimed in.

Sherlock gave the D.I. a grateful side-glance, but kept his mouth shut.

The doctor nodded.

"Then of course you can. I'll take you to him whenever you're ready."

Lestrade yawned.

"Well, I'd better be off, Sherlock. I've got paperwork I need to fill out."

Sherlock nodded and gave a half smile.

"Yes. Of course." His smile became wider. "Thank you. Really. Thank you."

Lestrade smiled warmly.

"Good to hear you say it. Hope you manage to keep your head once you tell John what happened."

Sherlock 's jaw tightened at that. He hadn't even thought about what John would do to him once he woke up.

"Right."

With one last nod, Sherlock started to follow the doctor down the hall.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Lestrade called after him.

The detective turned to look over his shoulder.

"It's Greg."

The D.I. smirked and was out the door, hardly prepared to deal with the screaming stepmother currently being held in custody back at the Yard.


	11. Food Poisoning

**I apologise for that abomination that was the last chapter. That was really rather bad. Not the prompt, of course, but the writing itself.**

**Hopefully this one will make up for it though. :P**

**Kudos to CarlisleLover1234, Zealister, and an anonymous guest for the prompt.**

* * *

"John?" Sherlock called up the steps as he slammed the door behind him. "I'm home!"

He heard small footsteps emerge from down the hall.

"Sherlock?" his landlady came shuffling into the foyer in her nightgown, yawning. "Sherlock, what's all this about?"

Sherlock smiled at her.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson."

The old woman frowned at the detective.

"It's far past evening, dear."

"Hm?"

"It's three in the morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I'm sure that can't be right."

He looked at his phone. Sure enough, it read *3:03 A.M.*.

"Oh. Well, I suppose we're both correct, then."

Mrs. Hudson rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"Sherlock, what are you on about?"

"It's not evening, but it's not three o'clock, either. Technically, it's three minutes past three."

The landlady rolled her eyes.

"Well, either way, you've gone and woken me up from a fairly pleasant dream. John's probably up now as well, the poor thing. He already has enough trouble getting to sleep." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "I do think, if he is up, you at least owe him a cuppa."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm sure he'll want to hear how the case concluded."

"But surely not this early in the morning. The man has to work in a few hours."

"That isn't my problem."

"It is when he's your friend."

Sherlock brushed off the woman and started up the steps, leaving her behind to shake her head and go back to her bedroom.

"John?" Sherlock called his flatmate's name once more. "Are you awake?"

He stopped outside the sitting room and looked around a bit.

"John?"

He heard a sound come from the bathroom down the hall. And it certainly didn't sound normal.

Sherlock, being curious and a tiny bit concerned, walked to the bathroom door. He found it to be slightly ajar and considered opening it the rest of the way to check on his friend, but he recalled being reprimanded more times than necessary that he should knock before entering. So, he did just that, knocking three times.

"John, are you alright?"

He heard his flatmate moan from the inside.

"Sh'lock, go..." the man slurred.

"John?" Sherlock asked, becoming more than a bit worried. "What is going on?"

"M'fine. Leave."

"No. I'm coming in."

Sherlock pushed the door completely open, and was met with a rather pale-looking John Watson slumped against the bathroom wall, his hair plastered to his head in thick clumps, beads of sweat dotting his brow. The detective wrinkled his nose at the sudden and unpleasant whiff of bile.

John was sick, then.

The doctor gave a painful-sounding sigh.

"No privacy for me, then."

Sherlock knelt down next to his companion, examining his features with unusually gentle eyes.

"You're sick, John."

"Master of deduction, right here," John wheezed, obviously trying to hold back another bout of nausea.

Sherlock ignored the snide remark and brought his hand up to feel John's forehead, noticing how his friend tensed at the sudden touch.

"What're you doing?" John asked, his voice shaky.

"You're burning up, perspiring quite excessively, and your brow is firmly knit. You are in an extreme amount of pain," Sherlock said, as coolly as ever, but not coldly.

Strangely enough, his voice almost seemed quite soothing.

"Food poisoning?" he asked, looking at John for some validation.

John couldn't help but smile a bit.

"Nice diagnosis, doctor." He felt as if his stomach was doing some sort of acrobatic routine. "Think it was that leftover Chinese of yours in the fridge."

Sherlock bit his lip.

"You ate that?"

John closed his eyes tightly.

"Did I eat one of your bloody experiments?"

Sherlock tilted his head, not sure how to answer the question.

"Not quite," he said, a bit hesitantly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It wasn't quite an experiment. That's what the dish was intended for. I thought I left a note..."

"Note?"

John lurched towards the toilet and began vomiting again.

Sherlock quickly bolted into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, scanning for the note.

It had been a post-it. It was quite possible that it had fallen off or something of that nature. But Sherlock could not find it anywhere. Frustratedly, he whipped off his coat and threw it on the table. As it collided with the surface, he heard something more than the usual clang of buttons; he heard a rustle of paper.

He couldn't have.

He slowly walked over to his Belstaff and rifled through one pocket. Then the other.

He felt paper brush against his fingertips. It was the post-it.

"Damn," he muttered.

He returned to the bathroom to find John on his hands and knees trying to catch his breath, but looking on the verge of collapse. Quickly, Sherlock rushed over to his friend and helped him into a standing position.

"Sh'lock, what're you doing?" John mumbled, sounding absolutely exhausted.

"Escorting you to bed," Sherlock said.

"I don't think upstairs is a good idea."

"I wasn't referring to _your _bedroom, John."

John blushed a bit.

"Y... yours?"

"Yes, of course mine, John. It's only logical. It's closest to the bathroom."

"The couch is fine, really," John stuttered, squirming as Sherlock half-supported, half-dragged him into the bedroom.

"Nonsense."

Upon arriving at the bed, Sherlock gently lowered his flatmate onto the mattress and helped him lay down.

"I'll return shortly," he promised, darting out of the room.

John struggled to sit up, trying to force down the rising bile in his throat. After succeeding in this endeavour, he proceeded to look around the room.

He had really only ever been in there once, and that was to take care of Sherlock after the Woman had drugged him. But even then, he really hadn't had a chance to take a good look around.

It looked rather normal; regular bed frame, a few science posters decorating the walls, a standard dresser and bookcase; that was really it.

But then again, he hadn't really gotten the opportunity to look in the closet. He wasn't really sure he _wanted _to look in the closet.

Just then, Sherlock came striding back into the room, arms full of needed supplies; a bin for vomit, a bottle of water, a wet hand towel, some stomach medication, and a thermometer.

John smirked.

"Prepared, are we?"

Sherlock gave him a look of warning.

"Lie back down. Don't exacerbate the situation." John followed orders and rested his head on the pillow. "And if you must know, I did have to consult Mrs. Hudson on the matter."

John groaned.

"You woke our landlady up to tell her I was sick?"

"Of course."

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson poked her head through the door.

"Oh, you poor dear," she clucked, walking over to John's bedside and placing her hand on his forehead. "Oh, you are on fire, aren't you? Sherlock, dear, hand me that cold compress I fixed, would you?"

Obediently, Sherlock handed the old woman the wet cloth in his hand and she placed it on John's hot skin. John winced at how cold the towel was when it first hit his skin, but instant relief soon followed suit, and he could hardly stifle a pleased groan.

"I'm sure that feels nice," Mrs. Hudson soothed. "Let me take his temperature," she said, taking the thermometer from Sherlock's outstretched hand.

After about a minute, the landlady withdrew the instrument from John's mouth and checked the results.

"39.4. You've definitely got a fever."

John nodded.

"Could've told you that."

Mrs. Hudson smiled tiredly.

"I'm making some tea downstairs if you want a cup."

John shook his head.

"Not now. I can hardly stand the thought of water, let alone tea. But thank you."

The landlady nodded.

"Well, I'll bring some up anyways if you want some later. Call me if you need anything else." And she scurried away.

Sherlock grabbed the bottle of medicine and poured out the proper dosage.

"Drink," he commanded as he handed the ill doctor the small cup.

Without too much thought, John downed the medicine in one go, washing it down with a small bit of water. He immediately regretted ingesting anything and felt his stomach do more somersaults. Sherlock held the bin in his hand, anticipating this reaction.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

After taking a few deep breaths, John nodded and closed his eyes.

"Sorry. Just need to relax."

"I, erm... I found the note," Sherlock said, guiltily.

"Oh? Must've missed it when I grabbed the plate. My fault."

"It was in my pocket. I forgot to leave it behind."

John sighed and put his hand over his eyes.

"Of course you did."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine, alright? Just... what were you doing with food that was way past its prime?"

Sherlock nervously rubbed his arm.

"I specifically requested that I be served a rancid dish so that I could use it for future experiments on various bacteria and moulds. I figured an already spoiled dish was less wasteful."

John nodded.

"Then it was just a mistake. Thanks for thinking of leaving a note, though."

Sherlock tried to find any possible trace of sarcasm in his friend's words, but could find none.

"I really am sorry."

"And I said it's alright. I'm pissed, but I'm not furious. It's a minor case of salmonella poisoning. I'll be over it in about a week."

"A week?"

"Yeah. Longer than I would like, but that's the way it is."

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you... do you need anything else?"

John took a moment to think.

"You know, if you could bring me a clean pair of pyjamas and my cell from my bedroom, that would be fantastic."

"Okay."

Sherlock handed the doctor the bin in his hand and jogged up the stairs into the other bedroom.

"Pyjamas and cell..." he muttered.

Where would John keep his pyjamas?

He was a man of habit, and most likely left the bottom drawer empty, due to his experience with psychosomatic pain in his leg. So that ruled that out. Socks and underwear were likely kept in the top drawer, probably to deter others from looking in. After all, most find middle drawers easily accessible, and tend to ignore the topmost ones. It wasn't really a difficult leap to make, for the pyjamas were right there in the middle drawer, neatly folded in designated piles; one for shirts, one for bottoms. Sherlock grabbed the first pair he laid eyes on and immediately shut the drawer. The cell was simple to find, as it was right on the nightstand where most people, including Sherlock, tended to keep it at night. He then returned down the stairs and to his bedroom where John was currently residing.

"Here you are," Sherlock said, dropping the items in his hands on the bed.

John smiled.

"Thanks. It'll be nice to change out of these sweaty clothes."

Sherlock nodded.

"I imagine so. Would you like some privacy?"

"Yeah. If you don't mind."

The detective swiftly turned his back, letting John change without having a pair of eyes on him.

"That was an awfully quick trip," John grunted, pulling off his shirt.

"It was quite simple, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Middle drawer. Socks and underwear reside in the top drawer, the bottom drawer remains vacant."

John blushed.

"Did you go rooting through my things?"

"You're ill. There's no time for such an activity."

"So you deduced it then?"

"Well, it wasn't a difficult conclusion to come to."

John shrugged and slipped off his bottoms.

"Well, you got what I needed. So I guess it doesn't really matter." He put on the clean tee-shirt. "Anyway, speaking of conclusions, how did the case turn out?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.

"I was right from the start."

"It was the shopkeeper?"

"Indeed. With a rolling pin. I did tell Lestrade, but he was quite convinced the mother was responsible. I had to humour him."

"Good. Glad it turned out okay."

As John went to bend down and put the new pyjama pants on, he felt his stomach begin to protest and he groaned.

"Bin. Now."

Sherlock quickly turned around and snatched up bin, thrusting into John's arms just as the man started to retch again. The fit was over in just a few seconds, but it was still enough to leave John gasping for air.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbled.

His flatmate gingerly placed the bin on the floor and sat next to John, rubbing circles on his back.

"Wh-what are you doing?" John asked, quite alarmed.

"Trying to soothe you. My mother did this to both me and my brother whenever we were ill. It was quite nice. I figured it would have the same effect on you. Did I assume incorrectly?"

John shook his head.

"No. It... it's actually really lovely. I just... you're the last person I would have expected to be so..."

"So...?"

"...caring, I guess. I mean, you're just the type to deem any sort of ailment as a weakness and ignore whoever is suffering from it."

Sherlock looked taken aback.

"You are my flatmate, John. My friend. Do you honestly think I'd ignore your suffering?"

The doctor shrugged.

"Of course, a cold wouldn't call for much concern, but you are in quite a terrible state at the present moment. You are in need of care. And besides, the sooner you are well, the sooner you can join me on another case. It really is quite boring without you tagging along."

John could have questioned the man's use of the phrase 'tagging along', but said man was currently mothering him in a way that no one would have ever expected. He was just counting his blessings. Instead, John just smiled.

"Good to know I'm not a complete bore."

Sherlock smirked.

"You're certainly more interesting than most."

John looked down at his bare legs and could hardly hold back a startled yelp.

"I'm a bit bare, Sherlock," he said, immediately tensing up again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"For God's sake, John, you're fine. You're better off without the pyjama bottoms anyway. They'll only make the sweating even more persistent."

"I guess, yeah. But... _you're _here."

"And?"

"And you're my flatmate."

"So?"

"I'm practically half-naked."

"You have boxers on, John. There's no need to be embarrassed."

"I guess not. But-"

"You're fine. Just rest."

With his flatmate's aid, John laid back down on the bed and sighed. Gently, Sherlock replaced the compress which John had removed to undress.

"Thanks," the doctor smiled. "I'll need to call Sarah, though. Tell her I won't be in for a while."

"I'll call her," Sherlock said.

"No. Don't."

"Why not?"

"I know how you get with her. You'll most likely say something I'll regret."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'll text her instead, then."

"Just a quick 'John has food poisoning, he won't be in for about a week' is fine."

Sherlock quickly unlocked John's phone (which John didn't even want to question) and typed out a text to Sarah.

"There. The deed is done."

"Oo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called from outside the room. "I've got tea."

The landlady came into the bedroom with a nicely arranged tea-tray, the cups lightly clattering on their saucers.

"Thanks, Mrs. H," John said. "I'll pass, though."

The woman nodded.

"Any for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I'm fine."

Mrs. Hudson shrugged.

"Well alright then. I'll leave the tray on the table, then. Get well dear," she said to the ill doctor.

"Cheers," John said as the landlady left the room.

"I think I'll get some sleep now," John said, his speech starting to slur a bit. "I'm feeling knackered."

"Would you like me to keep you company?" Sherlock asked.

"Nah. It's okay. I'll be fine."

"Alright. I'll be in the sitting room. Shout if you need anything; I'll be listening."

John closed his eyes.

"Will do. Thanks."

Sherlock smiled.

"Anything for my blogger."


	12. Danger at the Doctor's Office

**Whew! This one took all day. But, it's ready for your reading pleasure, and that's what's important.**

**By the way, sorry about the title. I know it's corny, but I couldn't resist. xD**

**Thanks to Emma/Lucy GB for this one. :)**

* * *

John stared blankly at the pencil holder on his desk, tapping his index finger absent-mindedly on his mouse pad as he did so.

God, he was bored. Not prepared-to-shoot-the-hell-out-of-the-wall bored (which he would never _not_ be pissed about). Just bored. And tired. All he wanted was to get home, make some tea, and enjoy some good old-fashioned crap tele. Or maybe a good book.

It's not that he didn't enjoy helping people. After all, that was his job. And he really did like his job. He just disliked slow days such as these. Nothing exciting ever happened.

John always figured that his time living with Sherlock had raised his expectations of life; he seemed to _always_ be anticipating something exciting to happen. But it was quite easy for him to forget that most of life is simply boring and uneventful; that that is just how things work in the world.

How he loathed the fact.

"Doctor Watson?" a timid-sounding woman called through the doorway.

John turned around in his chair and found himself looking at an alarmingly pale and excessively bruised face.

Well, this wasn't exactly excitement, but it was certainly not boring either. Domestic violence (as that appeared to be the case) was never really a dull subject. Albeit, a common one, but certainly not dull.

The woman before him wore a small, turquoise coat with a nice red scarf (given the brisk weather outside) along with skinny jeans and black boots. She was quite pretty: she had a lovely head of long, red hair, beautiful green eyes, and a thin figure. What offset her features were the bruises scattered about her face; and John hadn't gotten the chance to check the rest of her body. He was sure she looked absolutely stunning when her boyfriend wasn't abusing her. Not that she didn't look good now, she just looked... scared. Pale, exhausted, and scared.

John smiled at her.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the observation table.

With a soft smile, the woman shuffled over to the table and, with some struggling, propped herself up onto it.

"So," John started as he turned his chair to face her, "How are you doing this evening?"

She shrugged.

"I've certainly seen better days."

"Right," John nodded apologetically.

What a stupid question. Of course the poor woman wasn't okay. Her boyfriend had been beating her to a bloody pulp not too long ago, and for God knows how long before then.

John, eager to shy away from that awkward bit of smalltalk, brought out his clipboard, checking to see what this young woman's name was.

"Ah. You're Kate, correct? Kate Summers?"

The woman nodded.

"Yeah. But you can just call me Kate." She smiled again, wincing as her black eye protested the movement.

"Lovely to meet you, Kate," John said. "Would you mind if I ask how you got banged up so badly?"

Of course John knew. He just needed to hear it from her.

Kate hesitated before she answered, rubbing her arm uncomfortably.

"I, erm... I fell... down the stairs."

John raised his eyebrow.

It wasn't any of his business to pry. He only knew this woman's name, and she only knew his. Him pressing the matter wouldn't be very appropriate and would only make Kate even more uncomfortable and stressed out than she already was. So he settled on moving past the subject.

"Okay," he said, trying not to sound too suspicious.

John could tell with just one look that Kate did not believe for one second that he had bought her cover-up. She was obviously too smart to think that. After all, 'falling down the stairs' was the oldest and laziest deception in the book. No one bought it anymore.

"From what I can tell, you've got a pretty bad wrist there," John said, changing the subject. "Broken, if I'm not mistaken. You've also got quite a few bumps and bruises."

Kate shrugged.

"It's not too bad. Just painful."

John gave her a sad sort of look.

"I'm sure. Mind if I take a closer look?"

Kate shook her head, giving John the permission to examine her.

John stood up and walked over to her.

"Alright. Let's have a look, shall we?"

Gently, John reached out to undo the woman's scarf, causing her to tense up.

"It's alright," John reassured her. "I won't hurt you. Promise."

Kate nodded and let her shoulders slack a bit, so John continued to undo her scarf.

The bruises on the girl's neck immediately stood out as soon as the scarf was loosened.

"Those stairs must have had quite a powerful grip," John said, giving his patient a look.

Kate looked up at him out of the corner of her eye, almost ashamed.

"Let's have a look under the coat," John continued.

He delicately unzipped her coat, revealing a white tank top that exposed the extent of the damage done to her body. Her boyfriend was definitely a large fellow; the bruises on the girl's arms and neck were definitely hand-shaped and quite large. Not to mention dark. This man had a near bone-crushing grip.

Moving past the bruising, John picked up Kate's mangled hand, and she noticeably winced.

"Sorry," John said.

Kate nodded.

"It's okay."

John ran his finger's over the mess that was her wrist, feeling exactly where her boyfriend had twisted and broken it.

"Well, the good news is, this is easily fixable," he smiled at her.

"Bad news?" Kate asked.

"Well, you'll be stuck in a cast for a while, but I'm sure you knew that already."

She nodded.

"Now, there's really not much I can do about the bruises except give you some painkillers. But that should help significantly with the pain."

"That's fine."

"Well then, if you're ready, I say we get your wrist x-rayed and in a cast."

"Okay."

It took roughly an hour for the whole process to be finished, what with the x-rays, the strength tests, and putting on the actual cast. But once it was all said and done and the painkillers were administered, Kate seemed significantly better.

Physically, of course.

John was seated back in his chair, Kate reseated on the table, filling out a bit of paperwork and typing in the rest of Kate's details.

"You should be good to go," he said, setting his pen and clipboard down. He turned his chair back around to face her.

Kate smiled at him.

"Thanks Doctor," she said.

"Of course," John said, returning the smile.

"Am I alright to go?"

"In a moment. I would just like to talk to you."

Kate looked a bit nervous.

"About what?"

"I won't keep you long," John reassured her. "I just want to tell you that if there's anything you need; if you ever need somebody to call, I and a few good friends of mine will be willing to help you. I know it's not my place. I mean, I am only your doctor. But really, if you need anything at all-"

"Thank you," Kate interrupted. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Right. Okay." John cleared his throat. "I can give you my card. You know, if you want it."

The young woman smiled.

"That would be lovely. Thanks."

"Great. Just give me a moment to find my stack, here."

John turned back around to face his desk, pulling open some drawers in search of his business cards.

Just then, the room shook as the door to his office was roughly thrown open.

"Kate, you fucking whore!" a gruff man's voice boomed.

John immediately threw back his chair and ran in front of the man, holding his arms out as if to block him from passing through.

"Am I to assume that you're Kate's boyfriend?" he asked, ready to protect the woman cowering behind him.

"Damn fucking right! And am I to assume that you're the guy she's been fucking behind my back?!"

John raised an eyebrow at the man.

"I told you already, Ron, I haven't been seeing anyone behind your back! I just came to get my wrist fixed up, and he's the doctor who helped me," Kate said behind John. "This is Doctor Watson."

The man, whose name was Ron, apparently, gave John a look of pure malice.

John saw a nurse come running down the hallway to his office.

"Doctor Watson, I'm so sorry. I tried to stop him but-"

She looked at the frightening scene before her and went completely silent.

"Just walk away," John told her. "I've got this handled."

The nurse nodded quickly and scurried away, leaving John to deal with the situation until security inevitably arrived.

"Look, Ron, if you don't leave the room right now, security's going to make you leave," he told the man.

Ron got right in his face and snarled.

"I'm not leaving until she comes with me."

"Alright, I'm coming, Ron. Just please, calm down," Kate begged.

"You don't tell me to calm down!" Ron screamed at her. "You don't ever tell me what to do!"

As he went to shove John out of the way to lunge at Kate, John expertly grabbed his wrist and pulled it behind his back, grabbing the man's hair with his other hand and shoving him up against the wall.

"One thing you should know, Ron," he whispered harshly in his ear, "Just because I'm a medical man doesn't mean I won't hesitate to kick your ass. Especially when you try to attack one of my patients."

Ron struggled against the army man's tight grip, but to no avail.

"Kate, run!" John called behind him. "Get some more security!"

Shocked, Kate stood frozen for a second before doing as she was told, running out of the room as fast as her spindly legs would allow her.

"Okay, Ron," John said, his voice clear and low, "Security is going to be here any minute now, so I suggest that you calm the hell down. I know how to heal, so I know how to hurt."

Ron struggled again.

"This has nothing to do with you, you prick! This is between me and Kate!"

John pulled his arm tighter, causing him to cry out.

"When you're in my office, it becomes my problem. So now I'm involved too."

Ron growled.

"You want to be involved, Doctor? Well, alright then. Now you're fucking involved!"

With the force of what John could only compare to a wrecking ball, the man pushed doctor back and into the table, earning a grunt from the smaller man.

John, a bit dazed, went to steady himself, but found a fist connecting with his cheek, once again sending him back into the table.

Before John could even go to defend himself, Ron's hands were wrapped tightly around his neck, cutting off all air flow.

Now things were getting exciting.

John could feel the force of the grip crushing his windpipe, the threat of a fractured hyoid ringing through his brain.

Fuck. He was going to die.

Quickly, John splayed his hand out, searching for the medical tray, relieved to find his hand gripping a scalpel. In his panic, he accidentally caused the tray to go crashing to the ground, the noise echoing throughout the room. Just as black spots started to take hold of his vision, he forcefully drove the scalpel into Ron's arm. The man gave a satisfying cry of pain, pulling away from the doctor, giving John room to get up and run to the door.

If only he _could_ run. The lack of oxygen made him woozy, so his attempted run was more of a stumble, the door a bit more of a blur in his eyes.

Just as he reached the door, he felt a terrible pain rocket throughout his entire body as Ron drove the scalpel into his back, immediately causing him to crumple to the floor.

His vision was completely greying now, and he was sure this was how he was going to die.

He cried out as Ron roughly yanked the scalpel out and drove it into his back again.

This was it.

Before Ron could stab him again, the door flew open and four men were pulling him away.

The last thing John heard was a cry from Kate as she screamed down the hallway:

"We need a doctor here! Help!"

And the world went dark.

* * *

_Ping!_

That string sounded fine.

_Ping!_

Fine, again.

_Pang!_

Not right. Far from right. The peg needed a twist.

Sherlock looked distastefully at the offending string on his violin and twisted its peg until it sounded right again.

"There," he muttered.

He plucked at it.

_Ping!_

Perfect.

With a sigh, Sherlock got up from his chair, gently setting his beloved instrument down, and walked over to the window, looking out at the dimly lit street.

It was already nighttime. How had the day gone by so quickly?

Sherlock pulled out his phone from his pocket and looked at the time.

It was nine o'clock. Shouldn't John have been home?

"Leaving me to die of boredom. How rude," Sherlock scoffed, placing his phone back in his pocket.

Despite the fact that he was quite annoyed with his flatmate, the detective decided that after such a long day at work, John would appreciate an already made cup of tea. And Sherlock wouldn't mind a cup, either.

As he was about to walk into the kitchen, his phone rang. Without even thinking twice about who might be calling, he answered.

"A bit late, are we John?" he said, making it a point to sound irritated.

_"Sherlock, it's Lestrade."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What is it now? Another case you and your officers can't-"

_"Could you shut up for a second? This isn't about a case. It's about John."_

Sherlock's breath hitched.

_"Sherlock, there was an incident at the hospital. A patient of John's has a boyfriend who went apeshit and attacked him."_

The detective was already shrugging on his coat.

"Is he alright?"

He knew how badly his voice was shaking. He just didn't give a shit at the moment.

_"I don't know, Sherlock. They're still working on him."_

"I'm on my way, Lestrade," Sherlock said, running outside. "Give me details."

_"Sherlock..."_

"Details, Lestrade! Now!"

The D.I. sighed on the other end.

_"Sherlock, all I can assume is that John was stabbed. The guy who attacked him has got blood on his hands. And I know not all of it is his own."_

Sherlock's blood was boiling.

"Do you have the man there with you?"

_"My officers took him down to the Yard."_

"For questioning, correct?"

"_Sherlock, you are not going down there right now. All you're going to do is get yourself arrested."_

"Lestrade-"

_"The last thing John'd want you to do is get yourself in trouble on his behalf."_

Sherlock growled.

"Very well. But after I am sure that John will make a full recovery, I will want to question this man myself."

_"My men have got it covered."_

"You will let me confront this man, Lestrade," Sherlock said firmly through gritted teeth.

Lestrade sighed.

_"Fine. But not without my supervision. The last thing I need is another dead body on my hands."_

Sherlock saw a cab coming down the street and frantically hailed it, relieved as it pulled over.

"I'll be there in ten minutes. Wait for me."

_"I will."_

* * *

Sherlock bursted through the doors leading into the lobby.

"Lestrade!" he called out.

"Excuse me, sir!" a nurse dashed over to him. "There is really no need to shout!"

"Move out of my way," Sherlock snarled at her.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock," Lestrade rolled his eyes as he jogged over to the two. "I'm sorry, M'aam," he apologised to the nurse.

With a huff, the woman stormed back over to the front desk.

"Sherlock, if you act like this, you'll get booted out of here," the D.I. scolded the detective.

Sherlock completely ignored Lestrade.

"Is he out yet? Is he alright?"

"No, Sherlock, he isn't out yet. I haven't heard anything. Just sit down and shut up, will you?"

With a scowl, Sherlock marched over to the set of waiting room chairs and plopped himself down in one, crossing his legs and bobbing his foot up and down as he stared at the clock.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down," Lestrade said as he sat down in a chair beside the detective. "You're only making the situation worse."

"I'm making the situation _worse_? How am I making it _worse?_"

"You're freaking yourself out and making everyone here tense. Including me."

"And how am I supposed to react when I'm told that my flatmate has been brutally attacked at work, hm? Sit in front of the television while enjoying a nice spot of tea?"

"Sherlock, please calm down."

"I am perfectly calm, Lestrade!"

The lobby went silent as Sherlock's voice echoed throughout the room.

Lestrade put his head in his hands and groaned.

"Look, I'm going to grab some coffee. Do you want-"

"No."

The D.I. pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fine. Just please stay out of trouble while I'm gone."

Sherlock glared at the clock, completely ignoring the man.

"Jesus," Lestrade mumbled as he got up and walked away.

* * *

It seemed like years before a doctor finally came up to Sherlock.

"Are you Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes, of course I am. Don't be dull. How is John?"

"Well, he certainly wasn't wrong about you," the doctor mumbled. "John's recovering at the moment. There was no need to place him in the Intensive Care Unit, but he was still quite badly injured. He will make a full recovery, however."

Sherlock nodded, his head dizzy from relief.

"Good. Can I see him?"

The doctor nodded.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Follow me."

The doctor seemed to walk much too slowly, causing what should have been a quick trip down the hallway to turn into a bloody voyage. Finally, though, she opened the door to the room where John was currently resting, letting Sherlock in first.

"We've been told that you are to be allowed to stay past visiting hours, but that if you start acting up in any way that we have full permission to revoke that privilege. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to pull his eyes away from his unconscious friend in the hospital bed.

"Very good. The call button is beside John's bed if he needs anything."

Sherlock barely registered the door closing as the doctor left the room.

"John..." he whispered.

His flatmate looked quite pale in comparison to the blue sheet that covered him. Sherlock's eyes danced over John's injuries, making him angrier and angrier.

_Punched in the face, strangled half to death, stabbed once- no, twice- with what I assume to be a medical instrument._

That seemed to be all, and none of it seemed too serious. After all, the doctor said John would be fine. He just seemed to have suffered from blood loss and trauma. He was fortunate enough to have gotten injured in a hospital. Medics, particularly colleagues, had been at the ready.

Sherlock sat down in the chair beside the bed and scooted up closer beside John, reaching his hand out to touch the bruises on his neck and cheek.

John's lovely neck. His lovely cheek. Coloured an ugly mix of purple and black.

Sherlock was definitely going to have a word with the son of a bitch who did this.

And it wasn't going to be pretty.

* * *

John awoke the very next day, shocked and somewhat pleased to find his flatmate clinging onto his hand like a frightened child. A nurse, who he knew personally as Amanda Burns, came in to check his vitals and refill his bags, taking care to pump him full of morphine and leave him with a smile before swiftly exiting the room, leaving the two flatmates alone once again.

"How are you feeling, John?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged a bit lazily.

"Tired and sore. And a bit hoarse." He cleared his throat, cringing when it throbbed from the very effort.

Sherlock quickly grabbed a cup of water on the table and handed it to John who greedily took a few sips, hardly caring how much it hurt to swallow.

"Thanks," John said as he handed the plastic cup back to the detective.

Just then, there was a timid knock at the door.

"Come in," John said, swearing as his vocal chords protested the call.

Sherlock gave John a bit of an annoyed look, obviously wanting to be alone with him. But that didn't stop the door from creaking open.

"Doctor Watson?"

John cocked his head in surprise at the red-headed woman at the door, her green eyes looking guiltily at him, and her undamaged hand holding a bouquet of lilies.

"Hello, Kate," he smiled at her.

Sherlock turned around to look at the woman, firing off deductions in his head as soon as his eyes locked onto her.

_Age twenty-four, only child, dead mother, librarian, shy, abusive boyfriend-_

"Your significant other is the one responsible for John's injuries," he stated, glaring at her coldly.

Kate shuffled her feet nervously.

"Yeah, um... that's kind of why I'm here. Are you Doctor Watson's boyfriend?"

Both John and Sherlock blushed.

"Sorry about him, Kate," John said. "This is Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock, this is-"

"I don't care," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms and sinking into his chair.

John sighed.

"Sorry."

Kate smiled.

"It's fine, really." She cautiously stepped into the room. "These flowers, they um... I got them for you. I'll just, ah..."

She set them down on the table and gently smoothed them out.

"There."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I assume you came here for a reason other than delivering flowers?" the detective sneered.

"Sherlock, be nice," John shushed him.

Kate cleared her throat.

"Ah, yeah, actually. I just... if it's alright with you, I wanted to, um... thank you. I mean, if you hadn't... I mean if you didn't-"

"It's no trouble, really," John smiled.

"I'd beg to differ," Sherlock mumbled.

Kate tightened her lips and looked down at the floor.

"Oh, ignore him," John said, smacking Sherlock on the hand, receiving an indignant look from the man.

"I am so sorry this happened," Kate said, her voice cracking as she spoke. "Really I am. I just... God, I never expected that Ron would... I'm just so sorry you had to get involved." She wiped at her eyes.

"Well, snivelling won't help things," Sherlock said with a huff.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth. "Kate, there's really no need to cry. It's all fine. I chose to get involved. And it was worth it to avoid you getting hurt."

Kate had tears running down her face.

"I'm sorry I'm being so silly," she laughed, swiping at her cheeks. "If there's anything I can do... anything at all, if you ever... you know, need anything..." She set a slip of paper next to the flowers. "Just give me a ring. I know I probably won't be of much help with anything. But, if you ever have any overdue library books or something I can be of some help." She sniffed and smiled at the doctor.

John laughed.

"I'll certainly keep your number. I have a feeling we might be needing it."

Kate grinned.

"Oh good. I'm glad."

"How's the wrist?" John asked.

"It's fine. Everything's fine." Kate seemed so much more happier than she had looked the previous day. "I just... thank you for everything. I know I'll never be able to fully repay you. But I do hope you'll stay in touch."

She gently hugged him.

"Thank you."

John patted her on the back.

"Of course."

With one last nod, she hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

"You," John glared at Sherlock, "Have got to be the rudest man on this bloody planet."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're just getting that now?"

"Sherlock, the poor woman's been through enough in her life already. Not to mention she feels guilty for something that was completely out of her control."

"Good."

"Sherlock!"

"It's her fault that this happened to you, John!"

"It is most certainly not her fault! She tried to stop the guy but I insisted on getting in the way. If anything, this whole situation is my doing."

Sherlock stared hard at the doctor for a long minute.

"Why, John?"

"What?"

"Why are you so damn selfless? You've gotten injured far too many times on the behalf of others, including mine, and it's nearly gotten you killed more than once. But you don't care, do you? No. Because you're John Hamish Watson: a hardened and yet kind-hearted army doctor who can't help but take a bullet for any man or woman on the street."

"What's your point, Sherlock?"

"My point is, you're a remarkable man who I admire and care about and I don't want to see you hurt anymore than you already are."

"So you're saying you want me to stop saving lives?"

Sherlock stared at the floor.

"Only if saving the life is at the cost of your own."

John sighed and grabbed Sherlock's hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Sherlock, saving lives is what I do. I'm a bloody doctor for Christ's sake. It's what I will do until the day I die. And if that day had been yesterday, that would have been okay."

Sherlock looked at him with wild eyes.

"But I would have had one regret; and that would have been leaving you behind. I mean, someone has to look after you. And I bloody well know Lestrade won't be the one to do it. So I don't think I'll be dying anytime soon. And if it makes you feel better, I will certainly try to be more careful."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"You say that quite a lot."

John smiled at him.

"What if I promise?"

"Promises mean nothing to me."

"You can hold me to it."

Sherlock seemed somewhat satisfied with this.

"By any means necessary?"

"If it makes you feel any better. Just don't go making me wear bullet-proof vests beneath my jumpers."

"I might."

John rolled his eyes.

"Fine."

"Okay. Say it out loud."

John raised his right hand.

"I, John Watson, solemnly swear to keep myself alive as long as I possibly can."

"You will promise to keep yourself alive. Period."

John sighed.

"I, John Watson, solemnly swear to keep myself alive. Period."

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. I will most certainly hold you to that."

John let out a deep breath and closed his eyes again.

"Fantastic. Am I allowed to nap now?"

"Only if you stick to your promise."

John smirked.

"I raised my right hand, didn't I?"

Sherlock smiled and chuckled softly.

"Enjoy your rest, John. You need it."

The detective got up from the chair and worked on putting on his coat.

"I'll be back to visit you this evening. That is a promise that _I _am making. In the meantime, work on getting well," he said, brushing himself off and giving his hair a bit of a ruffle.

"Where are you off to?" John yawned.

"I have an appointment that I'm late for." Sherlock straightened his collar. "I need to see a man about a dog."

* * *

**You all are probably sick of me saying this, but... please review! :3**


	13. The Electric Fence

***bites lip* Well, this one is done. I don't know how I feel about it, but I'm not particularly confident.**

**Thanks to ZAP and Zealister for the prompt.**

* * *

"You seriously want us to go through with this?"

"Yes."

"You want us to climb over that?"

"And back. Yes."

"Isn't that a bit suicidal?"

"Perhaps."

"You do realise you're insane."

"Lestrade, do shut up. It's quite annoying."

The D.I. begrudgingly shut his mouth as he and John watched Sherlock scan the large electric fence before them.

"It's off," the detective said, "So we shouldn't have to worry about that."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes sceptically.

"Really? You're positive?"

With an indignant look, Sherlock marched up to the fence and pulled his glove off.

"Sherlock, what the hell!" John whispered harshly at him.

But when the detective firmly grasped the wiring of the fence, nothing happened and he smirked at the doctor.

John sighed and grabbed his chest.

"Jesus, Sherlock, don't fucking do that to me."

"See? I'm fine. We'll all be fine," Sherlock reassured the two other men. "It's safe to climb."

Lestrade leaned against the car.

"Isn't there some other way? You know, one that's less risky?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I assure you that this is the best course of action to take."

Lestrade sighed.

"Look, why don't John and I wait over here for you? I'm not sure I want to risk my neck climbing over a fence that will eventually become a death trap.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Fine, fine."

John, after wiping a slight bit of sweat from his brow, walked over to the fence along with his flatmate.

"I'm coming with you, then. I don't trust you on your own with electricity."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and nodded.

"Very well, then. John and I will return shortly, Lestrade. Have your gun at the ready and call for reinforcements."

The D.I. shook his head.

"I still think this is a bad idea. Just be careful, you two."

"Alright now, John," Sherlock said, facing the man beside him. "Off we go."

The two flatmates resented the fact that the fence was so goddamned tall, but with some determination, they were up one side and down the other within a good four minutes.

Sherlock, somehow being the quicker one, hopped down onto the ground below first, John following him not long after.

"Okay. So, how do we do this?" John asked as he brushed himself off.

"The important thing is that we get in undetected."

John slightly pursed his lips and furrowed his brow.

"Don't they have cameras on us?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. Despite the fact that the cameras are on, they don't provide the clearest image. Especially at night. This building is quite old, and so are the cameras."

John nodded.

"Right. Okay. So, let me make sure I have this all right in my head: we disable the alarm, sneak into the maintenance room, find the breaker that turns the fence on, rig it so it can't be manually turned off again, flip the switch, and run like hell so that way we can climb up and over the fence before it powers on?"

"And trap the three men inside, yes."

John crossed his arms.

"Okay. That is perhaps the shittiest idea I have ever heard, but I'm in. How hard d'you think it will be to disable the alarm?"

"Not very. One snip of the wires and we'll be fine," Sherlock said as he waved some wire cutters in the air. He placed them back in his pocket. "Once we get inside, I'll handle the switch while you stand guard."

"Okay."

Three and a half minutes and the flatmates had disabled the alarm and had snuck into the base, tiptoeing into the nearby maintenance room.

"Good idea choosing the back door," John whispered as he peered around the corner if the small room, looking out for any one of the men.

"That was the only logical choice, John," Sherlock mumbled as he popped open the door cover hiding the switch. "Ah! Here we are."

John's breath hitched when he heard footsteps close to where they were.

"How quickly can you get things done?" he whispered to his flatmate.

"Give me a minute, John. I'm quite close to having this figured out."

John let out a small breath and looked back around the corner, seeing a shadow stretching across the outside of the room.

"Sherlock..."

"Hold on, John."

"We have company."

Sherlock briefly looked over his shoulder to look at his companion.

"If things escalate, do whatever you must."

John nodded.

"Hurry."

After a bit more fiddling with the mechanics of the switch, Sherlock grunted in approval when he finally got it rigged.

"Perfect. Are you ready to run, John?"

The doctor nodded.

"Go."

And Sherlock yanked the switch upwards.

*Power: 10%*

"Go, John!"

And they dashed out of the room, Sherlock in front, John behind.

"Oi!" a man shouted at the pair, immediately starting to fire shots.

"Are you alright?!" Sherlock shouted behind him.

There was no point in trying to be quiet. They were already discovered.

"Just keep going! I'll catch up!" John called after him.

Sherlock heard shots being exchanged, the sound of a wounded man crying out as he fell.

God, he hoped that wasn't John.

He soon reached the base of the fence and scowled at it's height.

"John!" he shouted behind him, looking out for his companion.

"I'm coming!" he heard him yell back. "Start climbing!"

After hesitating, Sherlock finally started to climb the fence. He had nearly reached the top when he felt extra shaking at the bottom.

"I'm right behind you!" John yelled up at him. "Don't stop!"

Sherlock nodded and kept going, swinging his leg over the top of the fence and climbing down.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, hurry up!" Lestrade yelled after him. "I can't imagine you have a lot of time!"

"Shut up, Graham!" Sherlock yelled back at him.

He finally reached the ground, stumbling backwards as he jumped down.

The warning lights on the fence started to blink, the dust covering them making them appear dimmer.

"Hurry, John!"

He heard the distant sound of sirens.

John swung his leg over the fence. The other two men who hadn't been shot down were trying to climb the fence after the doctor.

"Get back!" Lestrade yelled at those two, firing a few shots at the fence, convincing them to hop back down.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as John climbed down the other side, getting closer and closer to the ground.

Things were going to be fine.

And in the blink of an eye and a sickening surge of electricity, John was thrown to the ground.

He twitched a bit, and then ceased all movement.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade gasped and ran over to the motionless doctor, dragging him away from the powered on fence. The two criminals stood on the other side trying to comprehend what the hell had just happened.

"Move, Lestrade," Sherlock hissed at the D.I. "Move!"

Lestrade immediately stepped out of the way, leaving Sherlock to tend to the unconscious man.

"John, tell me you're alright," the detective pleaded, placing his fingertips where he knew John's carotid artery resided.

There was nothing.

"No," Sherlock commanded. "Don't do this, John. Don't be an idiot. Don't die."

He started pumping on his friend's chest.

"Don't you dare go and do something as idiotic as die on me."

He then breathed into John's lungs twice, frustrated when that failed to work.

As he went to do more compressions, Lestrade pushed him aside.

"I'll do compressions. You do mouth-to-mouth."

There was no room for arguing.

"I called an ambulance, too. I figured we might be needing one," Lestrade grunted as he pumped away on the doctor's chest. "Breathe."

Sherlock frantically pinched John's nose and breathed for him twice.

"You two are idiots," Lestrade growled as he continued with the compressions. "I knew it was risky, and I was right. I should have never let you go through with this. Breathe."

Twice Sherlock breathed into John.

His heart still refused to beat.

"You dragged John and me out here in the middle of the night, confident that this shoddy plan of yours would go smoothly- Breathe."

Two more panicked breaths.

"And what was the result? Three men ended up trapped behind a fence, now watching as you and I try to resuscitate our dead friend! Breathe."

Sherlock breathed into John.

Still no response.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice quavering.

He wasn't sure who it was he was apologising to.

Lestrade ignored him and continued with the chest compressions.

"Come on, John," he muttered. "Come on, don't do this. Don't do this, mate, please." He nodded at Sherlock. "Breathe."

As Sherlock blew once into John's lungs, the doctor gasped and coughed, panting desperately for air.

The relieved sigh that Sherlock and Lestrade emitted seemed to echo around them.

Sherlock helped John into a siting position before laying his head in his lap, keeping his fingers on the man's neck.

"Didn't make it in time, huh?" John wheezed, his eyes shifting to look at the fence. He coughed again.

Sherlock smiled softly at him.

"You were quite close to making it to the bottom."

John snorted.

"Figures. Jesus, my head," he groaned.

Sherlock watched as three more police cars pulled into the area, closely followed by an ambulance.

Lestrade patted John on the chest, absent-mindedly rubbing his hand in circles over the doctor's heart.

"It's okay, mate. Everything's okay now. There's an ambulance here for you."

John went to sit up, but both Lestrade and Sherlock prevented him from doing so.

"But that other guy's shot," John slurred, closing his eyes tightly.

"He'll be fine, John. Lestrade will call another ambulance for him. Right now, we need to get you taken care of."

John sighed.

"Jesus, I'm sore."

Sherlock nodded.

"I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten us into this mess."

John smirked and looked at Lestrade.

"Made sure you chastised him, hm?"

Lestrade laughed a bit.

"Well, to be fair to him, you're the one who went running after him."

John shrugged.

"Sort of my job, though. If I hadn't been there, the idiot would have gotten himself shot and killed."

Sherlock frowned.

"I'm right here, you know."

John chuckled.

"It's true."

The detective softened his expression and looked worriedly into his blogger's eyes as he stroked the man's staticky hair. If the moment were appropriate, he would have laughed at how silly it looked. But the moment was far from appropriate.

"You died, John," Sherlock said. "Your heart wasn't beating. I thought you weren't coming back."

"He's right, mate. You scared the hell out of us. Don't do that again," Lestrade told him.

John smiled at them both.

"Sorry for scaring you."

"Sir!" Donovan's voice called a ways away.

Lestrade looked apologetically at John.

"That's for me. You going to be alright?"

Both Sherlock and John nodded.

"Okay. Sherlock, you get him to the ambulance. He needs attention."

The detective nodded.

"Of course."

As Lestrade walked away, Sherlock helped John stand.

"Jesus Christ," John groaned. "Oh my God, that hurts."

"I really am sorry, John," Sherlock said, supporting his friend's weight.

"Well, my week wouldn't be complete without one of you plans going awry, would it?"

Sherlock helped John walk towards the ambulance.

"I suppose not. But this one in particular was carelessly thrown together."

John shrugged.

"I guess. But hey, things are okay now, right?"

Sherlock looked over to see Donovan and Lestrade exchanging a few words next to officers working on disabling the fence.

"Yes. I suppose they are."

"How about we indulge in some good old-fashioned crap tele when we get home?" John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, you and your ridiculous pastimes."

"I'll settle for some tea and your music," John said with a smile.

Sherlock smirked.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

**Hahahahaha**

**Ha**

**Ha**

***ahem***

**Yeah, so... that one's over. Sorry it was a bit not good. I wanted to get the story updated ASAP, writer's block was preventing me from doing so, yada yada yada... Anyway, long story short, this is what happened. But hey, you made it through this one, so kudos to you.**

**I promise I've seen all of the prompts, and I've written them down. Right now it's just a matter of seeing how I can work with what you all have given me. ****But I would still love some more... ;)**


	14. Suffocation

**Here I am, back with another chapter!**

***crickets chirping***

**Please. Your enthusiasm is far too much. -_-**

**I kid, I kid.**

**Anyway, allow me to give a quick thanks to... *adjusts glasses and squints* DeanandSam.**

**...**

***unintelligible fangirl noises***

**Pardon my fangirl moment. I just recently got hooked on Supernatural, so... you get the point.**

**Ahem.**

**Hopefully you enjoy this chapter. A lot of these are hits and a lot of these are misses, I know. I just hope this one is a hit.**

**Or at least a foul. **

**Hey, as long as the bat touches the ball, I'm good.**

**Enjoy! :D**

* * *

John yawned and rubbed at his eyes, trying to rid himself of the tired feeling that had set in quite a few days ago. He was absolutely knackered.

"For God's sake, John, go to bed," Sherlock sighed as he pushed past the doctor to get to the coatrack. "The yawning is beginning to irk me. And besides, I can't have you incapacitated throughout the duration of this case."

"And holding you back," John snorted.

The detective turned around to face the man.

"No, and putting yourself at risk. If you're weak, Fuller can take advantage of that if you're with me." He grabbed his scarf from a peg on the coatrack and flung it round his neck. "The last thing I need is you either injured or dead. Both circumstances would prove quite inconvenient."

John furrowed his brow at Sherlock.

"And the last thing _I _need is you running around on your own and potentially getting yourself killed due to your recklessness."

Sherlock finished tying his scarf.

"There really is no need to worry, John. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

The doctor's look only hardened.

"Okay, first of all: No. You're not. And second, there is absolutely a need to worry about you, Sherlock. Fuller is out to get you because he knows _you're_ out to get _him_. And to make matters worse, neither the Yard nor we know where he is right now, so you aren't really safe anywhere right now. Even Baker Street is dangerous."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Why not keep me in a safe house then?"

John tightened his lips.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, you git. The danger is very real."

"I know that, John. I'm not an idiot." Sherlock grabbed his coat from another peg on the rack and shrugged it on, taking care to straighten out the collar. "I'm simply taking this as an opportunity to trap the man. It saves me the trouble of having to hunt him down."

John nodded reluctantly.

"I guess." He sighed. "Look, just be careful, alright? I don't want to get a call from Lestrade in the morning to hear that they found your body in a ditch somewhere."

Sherlock turned his head and smirked at him.

"I haven't let you down yet, have I?"

John's lips twitched a bit.

"You've come very close to doing so. But no; you haven't."

The detective patted him once on the shoulder before heading to the door.

"Don't touch the tongues on the counter, John. They have yet to defrost," Sherlock called behind him as he made his way down the stairs.

John let out a breath.

"I don't even want to know," he mumbled with a shake of his head.

Approximately forty-five minutes later, after John had showered, brushed his teeth, and slipped into his pyjamas, he was nestled under his bed covers, breathing in the comforting scent of his pillowcase with his eyes closed. He was going to sleep like a rock tonight.

* * *

John bolted upright from the mattress, his heart racing and his lungs inflating and deflating just as quickly.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.

_Sherlock was dead on the ground, blood neatly pouring from the hole in his forehead…_

He wiped at his sopping brow as he took another deep breath.

_Red encircled the detective's head like a morbid halo…_

John shook his head, ridding his mind of the horrendous images. What a nightmare that was.

He looked over at the clock on his bedside table, learning that it was only two in the morning.

So much for getting a restful night's sleep.

He rubbed his eyes, trailing his hands up to the back of his neck and massaging it. He took a moment to let his heartbeat settle, waiting until the loud whirring in his head stopped.

He cleared his throat and swung his legs over the side of the bed, thinking that a nice cup of tea would relax his nerves. Getting back to sleep in his current state would hardly be possible.

Sluggishly, John descended the stairs into the sitting room and shuffled into the kitchen, looking out for the kettle.

He paused as the hairs on his neck stood on end.

Something was off. Something was wrong.

He turned back around and cautiously stepped back into the living room, his tired eyes trying to pierce through the fuzziness in his vision as they scanned the area.

The floorboards timidly creaked beneath John's careful footsteps as he tried to sneak around.

He looked over at the window, immediately noticing the fact that it had been left wide open, letting the cold, early morning air leak into the already freezing flat.

Hurriedly, John stepped across the room over to the window and slammed it shut, firmly latching it. He gently draped the curtains in front of it, his mind still ill at ease. Why had the window been left open?

The doctor's face drained of all color when his eyes met the sight of dirt on the sill.

Someone was here.

Shit.

Before John could make another move, someone had roughly thrown a plastic Tesco bag over his head and brought an arm around his neck, firmly pulling him into a chokehold as he started to suffocate.

_Don't struggle! Go limp! Go limp!_ His mind screamed. _Play dead!_

As much as he wanted to betray his instinct, he couldn't; the need for air completely turned him into an out-of-control animal.

He grabbed at the strong arm choking him, his fingernails fruitlessly scratching away at the skin as the rest of his body flailed about, knocking over the bookcase and somehow succeeding in ramming the attacker into the desk, causing a jar full of God-knows-what to tip over onto its side and roll onto the floor with a shatter.

John started to see greying round the edges of his vision as his oxygen-deprived lungs worked to keep him alive, but all in vain. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, and his attempts at defending himself became slow and tired, his limbs feeling like lead.

Just as he felt himself blacking out, he heard a gunshot, followed by the sound of his attacker crying out in pain. His limbs went slack as another gunshot echoed throughout the flat, finally sending both him and the attacker to the floor in one big heap.

The plastic bag was unceremoniously ripped from his head, allowing him to gasp for the much needed air. He felt wiry arms wrap around his torso and drag him away from the fallen man.

"John!" a deep voice called to him as cool, slender fingers felt around his neck.

John opened his eyes blearily as he drew in deep, frantic breaths, his blurry vision blocking out the features of the figure hovering above him. All he could clearly make out were black locks and pale skin; two trademark features (aside from the ever-so sharp cheekbones) that could only mean said figure was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, of course it's me, John. Are you alright?!"

Had John said his name out loud?

He blinked furiously, finally able to make out more details as oxygen was returned to his lungs and head.

"Jesus," he groaned when he finally felt confident in working his vocal chords.

"John?" Sherlock said, his voice softening as he realized that his companion would be okay.

John struggled to sit up, relieved when he found that the detective was already one step ahead of him, the man's arms helping him into a sitting position.

"Thanks," the doctor muttered, closing his eyes as a strong wave of dizziness set in.

Sherlock wordlessly wrapped John's arm around his shoulders and aided him to his chair, gently setting him down.

"Would you like some water?" he asked.

John nodded and swallowed the thick knot that had formed in his throat.

"Please," he choked out breathlessly.

In just a few seconds, Sherlock had handed John a cold glass of tap water, kneeling beside the doctor's chair as he watched the man drink.

As John laid the now empty glass aside, Lestrade came barging through the door along with Donovan and another officer.

The inspector stared at the scene before him, noticing the body on the floor first, and then the two flat-mates nearby.

"What the hell happened? Are you two alright?" he asked, motioning for Donovan and the officer to tend to the body.

Sherlock protectively laid his hand over John's, staring intently at the doctor as he answered Lestrade's question.

"I'm fine. John, as you can probably tell, is most definitely not. Fuller nearly killed him with a plastic bag."

John, still panting, looked over at the inspector and nodded, swallowing once more.

"Christ, John," Lestrade said, stepping over to take a closer look at him. "You going to be okay?"

Sherlock growled at him.

"I imagine that he'll make a full recovery. Now, if you wouldn't mind, Inspector, do your job."

Lestrade gave him a stern look.

"And what exactly do you think I'm doing, Sherlock? John is a victim, and I need to question-"

"No, you really don't. Your primary concern should be the man bleeding to death on Mrs. Hudson's carpet. Not questioning my flat-mate on a rather self-explanatory incident."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and walked over to Donovan.

"S'no need to be rude," John said, looking firmly at the detective. "He's only tryin' to help."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he continued to assess the doctor's condition.

"And what a help he's been so far."

John sighed and closed his eyes again, his lungs still burning.

"Sherlock, what in God's name…?" the two flat-mates heard Lestrade exclaim from across the room.

"One bullet hit his thigh, the other, the base of his spine. I'm not exactly a marksman, Lestrade. My apologies," Sherlock responded without hesitation.

The inspector groaned and ushered in the paramedics who were quick in loading Fuller onto a stretcher and removing him from the premises.

"Now Sherlock-"

"Thank you, Lestrade. That will be all for now."

With one last pitying look at John, Lestrade was out the door along with a grumbling Donovan, leaving Sherlock alone with the doctor.

* * *

Sherlock handed a steaming cup of tea to John.

"Thanks," John said as he took the mug, greedily sipping at the liquid inside. "Oh, that's good."

Sherlock smiled and sat down across from the doctor in his own chair, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he observed him.

With a satisfied smack of the lips, John rested the tea on the arm of the chair.

"Okay," he said as he cleared his throat. "Explain."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

"Hm?"

"I know you have a good explanation for all of this. So I expect to hear it."

The detective hardened his gaze, preparing for one of his long-winded speeches.

"I knew Fuller was coming to Baker Street tonight in hopes of killing me. I figured out that he knows my name and address thanks to external sources; otherwise, why would he be looking to execute me without even having the opportunity to meet me face-to-face? He found out about me and my work, and wanted to eliminate me before I had a chance to uncover him. However, a glaring flaw in his plan was the fact that he hardly knew what I looked like and that I had a flat-mate who he could mistake for me. I exploited this weakness by forcing you to stay here and rest, therefore allowing me to hide out across the street with your Browning and call for backup while he fell for the bait. It worked quite swimmingly, aside from my nearly failing to reach you in time."

John sat with a look that seemed to mix anger, astonishment, and exhaustion.

"Well," the doctor said, irritated. "Great to know I served the role of bait quite nicely."

"Up until the point you let your guard down and almost got killed."

John looked incredulously at the man.

"And whose fault is that? If you had just told me about your little plan, I wouldn't have ended up in that situation in the first place!"

Sherlock remained quiet.

"I was a bloody idiot to think that you actually cared," John said with a humorless chuckle.

"I do," the detective said defensively.

"No. If you actually cared about me, Sherlock, you wouldn't have let me walk blindly into the death trap that _you _set up!" John ran a hand through his hair. "You wouldn't have let me worry over nothing."

Sherlock gave him a questioning glance.

"I had a nightmare, Sherlock," John said quietly. "A nightmare that you had been shot and killed by Fuller. And I couldn't do anything to stop it."

Sherlock let a moment pass before responding.

"That explains why you were up so early."

John huffed.

"Couldn't figure that one out on your own, could you?"

Sherlock stared at the floor.

"I'm… I'm sorry." Sherlock paused. "You were that worried about me?"

John looked tiredly at the man, having felt like they'd had this conversation over and over again.

"Of course, Sherlock. I always worry when you go out on your own. Especially when there's a killer on the loose who's specifically out to kill _you_."

Sherlock nodded as he comprehended this information.

"If it's any consolation," the detective said, "I truly was worried about you as well."

John laughed a bit.

"It took a plastic bag over my head to get you to that point."

Sherlock frowned and looked down at his shoes again.

"I'm sorry. I never intended for the situation to get so out of hand." He looked back up at John, his look genuinely apologetic. "Really, I am sorry. For everything."

John shrugged.

"Whatever. Look, the killer's caught, I'm alive, and you're… whatever you are right now. Back to normal, I guess."

Sherlock let out a small sigh.

"Yes. I suppose I am."

"Then things are alright." John pushed himself up from the chair. "And I forgive you. Now, I'm going to go back to bed because I'm bloody exhausted." He smiled softly. "Warn me if any bag-wielding serial killers want to come upstairs and smother me, yeah?"

Sherlock smirked halfheartedly.

"Certainly."

With a slight nod, John trudged up the stairs, and Sherlock watched him carefully as he went.

* * *

**Done and done. **

**Now, I promise I** **have** **seen all of your recommendations. Don't think that I have forgotten about any of you or anything like that. I have lots to work with, so it might be a bit until I get to yours. Just know that I am not ignoring any of you. :)**

**As always, I love reviews. *many nudges and winks***


	15. The Forgotten Gun

**Kudos to Anon for this prompt.**

* * *

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes. Things have gotten quite interesting, now, haven't they?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the brute before him.

"I suppose if you're definition of 'interesting' is synonymous with my definition of 'dull', then yes."

The larger man laughed.

"I'm sure things won't be so dull once I get started with you."

"There's really no need to try to impress me. I promise your idiocy is torture enough," Sherlock said with a snarky smile.

The man remained stoic.

"Throwing insults round won't be much good for stalling, Holmes. I'll have each one of your fingers broken before you even begin to speak."

"You work quickly, then."

"That's what I'm known for. Quick, but quite painful."

Sherlock fearlessly looked him in the eye and sneered.

"Impress me."

The man nodded.

"Happy to oblige." And he picked up a wrench from out of his grey duffel bag.

"I must ask you before you begin: why a warehouse?" Sherlock asked, hardly able to help the glance he gave the menacing wrench. "The location is, dare I say, unoriginal? Not that you seem a very particular man, of course, but I'm simply curious."

The man shrugged.

"I guess I'm just one of those old-fashioned kind of blokes. You can't go wrong with a nice, abandoned warehouse."

"I'm inclined to feel offended."

"Oh?"

Sherlock nodded and sniffed.

"A man such as myself hardly deserves to die in such a boring place. There are plenty of warehouses in London, each one similar to the next. Why not somewhere more exciting?"

"What would you propose?"

"Perhaps a bomb shelter would be suitable. I don't see enough of those. Or the sewers." Sherlock smiled at the thought. "Now _there's _an idea!"

The criminal looked up at the ceiling as if he were pondering the idea.

"Not a bad suggestion. I'll keep that in mind," he grinned. "Now, why don't you hold still?"

He walked over until he was standing on Sherlock's left, wrench firmly gripped in his hand.

"If I were you," Sherlock said, his frame tensing up, "I would start with the right side. That's my dominant hand."

The man narrowed his eyes and promptly switched sides.

"But then again, I am a bit ambidextrous. Perhaps the left side would suffice."

Again, the criminal switched sides.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"However, I am far more dexterous with my right-"

"Enough!" the man shouted. "I'm sticking with your left hand!"

Sherlock swallowed.

"Are you sure that's the best idea? Because I assure you that the right is definitely the side to start with."

The man snarled and threw down the wrench.

"I've had about enough of your bullshit!" He grinned. "I think we'll start with the eyes first."

Before he could go back to his duffel bag, a loud crash could be heard echoing throughout the old building, along with the sound of splintering wood.

"Ah. Here he is. A bit late, but here," Sherlock said with a smile.

The criminal looked a bit confused at first, still trying to comprehend what the hell was happening.

And that's when a bullet connected with his arm.

"Argh! Fuck!" he cried, clutching the profusely bleeding wound as he stumbled backward.

John appeared from behind a large stack of boxes, his gun still held in a defensive position.

"Sherlock!" he cried out, rushing over to his friend and quickly checking him over. "Are you alright?"

"Impeccable timing, John, really," Sherlock said, barely making an effort to hide his sarcasm.

"Yeah, thank me later," John told him. "Let's just focus on getting you untied."

Sherlock looked over John's shoulder.

"Hand me your pocket knife. I'll do it myself. You have bigger problems at present."

John craned his neck to see the criminal he had just shot fuming and looking ready to fight.

"Right," he nodded, quickly shoving the handle of his pocket knife into Sherlock's hands. "Work quickly."

"You shot me, you cock!" the criminal shouted.

"Yeah, well you weren't being very nice," John said with a shrug. "You're lucky I haven't put a bullet through your brain."

"Why don't you go ahead and do it then, doctor?"

John stepped closer to him.

"You see, I would do that, except I would rather not have to answer for your execution. Too much work."

"I don't have a problem answering for yours, mate," the criminal growled.

He lurched toward John and went to grab the gun, but found himself instead locked in a very effective chokehold, the gun having been thrown to the floor.

He scratched at the ex-army doctor's surprisingly strong arms, flailing about as he tried to escape the death-grip. When that didn't work, he settled instead for grabbing at John's hair and forcefully pulling, causing the doctor to grunt in pain and slightly loosen his hold, allowing the criminal to slide out and get into a fighting stance.

Sherlock, meanwhile, grunted and cursed as he fumbled with the annoyingly dull knife, the blade barely cutting through the restraints.

John felt a fiery pain erupt throughout his jaw as the criminal's large fist connected with it, sending him back a few feet. John recovered just in time to dodge another attack from the man, stepping out of the way and allowing the brunt of the angry Goliath's force to plow into the boxes behind him. The brute, dazed from the collision, turned around to throw another punch, but was instead pinned to the wall of boxes by John. He went to push him off, but was stopped when the doctor's knee swiftly connected with his groin. He howled in pain and dropped to the floor, clutching his beaten testicles.

Taking this opportunity, John grabbed the gun from the floor and brought the butt of it down hard against the man's temple.

And then all was quiet.

He let the gun drop from his hand and clatter to the floor as he took a few deep breaths.

"John?" he heard Sherlock call.

John looked over his shoulder at the detective who was currently squirming around in his chair.

"I am in need of some assistance."

John smiled and walked over to Sherlock, taking the knife from his hands and cutting the rest of the way through the ropes. He then proceeded to untie the ropes around Sherlock's right ankle as Sherlock untied the ones binding his left. Once The detective was unrestrained, he stretched and stood up.

Sherlock gave John an acknowledging nod and walked over to the unconscious criminal, cocking his head at his lifeless appearance.

"Good work, John," he remarked. "I do forget how useful your army training can be."

John laughed a bit.

"Yeah. The bastard can sure throw a punch, though."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, turning his back to the criminal and scrutinising John.

John nodded.

"Yeah. It'll hurt to move my jaw, but it's not broken." He rubbed at where the criminal's fist had met. "Did he hurt you while you were in here?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"The only wrong he's done unto me was forcing me to listen to him brag about his so-called "reputation"."

John chuckled.

"People like him tend to have big mouths, don't they?"

"Unfortunately." Sherlock cleared his throat. "There are handcuffs in my coat pocket, John. I would appreciate it if you would fetch them for me."

The doctor nodded.

"Yeah, sure. Your coat is..."

"On that box right behind you," Sherlock pointed over to a lower stack of crates.

John turned around and spotted the Belstaff, promptly walking over to the garment and rifling through the pockets, frustrated at finding them both empty.

"Sherlock?" he called.

The detective, caught up in examining the criminal's body, didn't notice the call at first.

"Sherlock?" John called again, this time earning a 'Hmm?' from the man in question. "They aren't in here."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and pivoted on his heel.

"What?"

"They aren't here."

Sherlock strode over to John.

"You've checked both pockets?"

The doctor rolled his eyes.

"No, I just thought I'd check the one to make our lives a bit more complicated."

"There really is no need for sarcasm, John," Sherlock said. "You've called Lestrade, have you not?"

John nodded.

"Yeah, 'course I have."

"Good. As long as we keep a close eye on the man, we ought to be fi-"

"Sherlock!" John screamed suddenly at him.

The detective barely had enough time to register what was happening before he was violently thrown to the side by his companion, running into the chair and crashing to the floor, the sound of the collision overlapping with the sound of a gunshot.

He looked over at the criminal at first, finding him to be quite conscious with John's browning in his hand. Sherlock then turned his head to John, fearing the worst, his face paling when he saw red blossoming across the doctor's jumper.

"John?" his said, his voice barely a whisper.

John fell back against the wall of boxes, sliding down until he hit the floor.

Furious, Sherlock stood up and grabbed the metal chair, menacingly approaching the criminal. The man wasted no time in pointing the gun at the detective and pulling the trigger, but was horrified when only an empty click could be heard.

Sherlock forcefully stepped on the criminal's wrist, causing the gun to drop back to the floor. He was granted satisfaction at the sound of bone crunching beneath his foot along with the pained cries of the man. The detective then swung the chair over his head and down upon the criminal's once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four, five, six...

"Sherlock, stop," John moaned from behind him. "You'll kill him."

Sherlock, taking a moment to admire the blood pooling around the criminal's head, dropped the chair and rushed over to John.

"Where is the wound?" he asked, scanning John's torso.

A stupid question. The bullet had obviously punctured a lung. The right one, to be exact. John didn't have long, but with Lestrade on the way, most likely with an ambulance intended for Sherlock, there was a good chance he would survive.

Small, but good.

John's head lolled a bit.

"No. Stay with me, John, stay with me. Don't be an idiot," Sherlock muttered as he lightly tapped his friend's cheek. "You need to lie down right now so that I may effectively stem the blood flow."

Sherlock placed a hand behind John's back and one on the hole in his chest as he slowly guided him to the floor, flinching as the doctor cried out in pain. As soon as John's head hit the floor, he brought his other hand to the wound and pressed down, causing John to yelp.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, trying to keep himself under control. "But you know just as well as I that this is a necessary course of action to take if you want to survive."

John nodded and took a deep breath.

"S-sorry."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Now, while we are awaiting help, would you mind explaining to me what the hell you were thinking?"

John smiled tiredly.

"Couldn't let that bullet hit you."

"And apparently you couldn't save yourself?"

John shrugged.

"Was either me or you. Sorry."

"Apologies are pointless right now. If you hadn't left your gun unattended, this wouldn't have happened in the first place."

"You were t-" John coughed, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth as he did so. "Tied up."

"And you were _that_ caught up in ensuring my own safety that you neglected to pick up your own gun?"

"'m only human."

"A human who might die purely because of negligence! You truly are an idiot, John Watson. An absolute imbecile."

John heaved.

"S-says the man who got k-kidnapped."

Sherlock's hard gaze softened slightly.

"I haven't thanked you, have I?"

John smirked.

"You never really do."

"Then if it's worth anything right now: thank you. Now, don't die."

John laughed, once again sending himself into a coughing fit.

Sherlock gently wiped flecks of blood from John's chin with his thumb and looked down at him, his face riddled with worry.

As John's eyes began to close, the detective heard the sound of sirens pulling up to the warehouse, quickly followed by Lestrade and a few other officers bursting through the door.

"Sherlock!" the D.I. called. "Where are you?"

"Lestrade, the paramedics please!" Sherlock shouted at him.

Lestrade rounded the corner, immediately taking in the scene before him.

"What the hell?!" he exclaimed. "Sherlock, what happened?!"

"Paramedics, Lestrade. Now."

The D.I. gave the detective a slightly dubious look before calling for a group of EMTs. He then ran over to the two flatmates.

"How's he doing?" he asked, looking at the doctor's pale form.

"Dying. Where are the paramedics?"

"They're coming, Sherlock, don't worry. What happened after John found you?"

"Why does it matter, Lestrade?"

"Because I need to get both of your statements."

"Get them later."

"But-"

Lestrade was interrupted by a group of EMTs working hurriedly to get John loaded onto a gurney. Sherlock followed them as they started to wheel him away.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him.

But all efforts to summon the detective were in vain. He sighed as he watched him run off with John, keeping close by his side.

"Sir?" Donovan said as she walked up beside the inspector. "Myers is still alive."

Leatrade nodded.

"Right. Good for questioning, then?"

Sally shrugged.

"Hard to say. Someone had some fun bashing the guy's brains in with a metal chair."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You don't think...?"

"Is it even a question anymore?"

Greg ruffled his hair a bit.

"Well, as long as he'll pull through, there's no reason to make a huge fuss over it."

Donovan crossed her arms.

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Sherlock's already been through enough tonight."

Sally scoffed at this.

"It's not like kidnapping is anything new to him."

"No, but it's not every day that his best friend bleeds out beneath him after saving his arse. So leave the man be."

The lieutenant bit her lip in order to refrain from arguing with her superior and nodded, walking over to the small group of officers handling Myers.

"Bloody selfless bastard," Lestrade muttered, looking distastefully at the pool of blood John had left behind.

* * *

**(Before you get cross with me (hopefully you don't) I know John already got shot. But this prompt was slightly different, so I went with it.)**

**Like I said in the last chapter, I have seen all of your recommendations. There's just a lot of brainstorming happening right now, so there's no telling how long it will take me to get some of these prompts written. Plus, school is starting back up, so... yeah. I love writing this story, but the hiatus between chapters might become increasingly longer and longer just because of homework, extracurriculars, etc. But I shall continue to write as long as I can. I shall carry on...**

**My wayward son.**

***high-fives Hunters***


	16. The Weighty Affair

**I have DeanandSam and DrinkinOuttaCups to thanks for this idea. :-)**

* * *

_Blunt force trauma, first struck on temple (left-handed swing), which knocked her unconscious upon impact. Not immediate cause of death. Was rolled over onto back and struck two… no, three more times in the face. Someone practically bashed her head in. Object obviously heavy; it didn't require much force to cause an incredible amount of damage. Left wrist bruised and broken; obviously grabbed forcefully by her assailant. She tried to wriggle free of his grasp; cause of break. Residue on right hand appears to be from pepper spray. She defended herself then, only succeeding in forcing her attacker to back off…_

Sherlock straightened himself up from where he had been crouching on the floor and snapped off the latex gloves he was currently wearing.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked as he walked up behind the detective.

"Who have you got in questioning?" the detective asked as he continued to stare at the body.

"The boyfriend, Thomas. He says he's got nothing to do with it, though," Lestrade said with a huff. "That's what they all say."

"Of course they all say that, Inspector. Most men prefer it if they can avoid prison at all costs. It isn't exactly what one would call 'paradise'."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Right. So, what have you got?"

"Blunt force trauma, first knocked unconscious by a left-handed swing to the right temple, then the rest of her face was bashed in three times before the murderer retreated."

The inspector nodded.

"Yeah… we've kind of gathered that. Anything else?"

"Yes. The man had a strong grip, due to the fact that the simple act of the victim trying to free herself caused a severe break in her wrist. I found pepper spray residue on her right fingertips, suggesting she had the chance to defend herself, but obviously only succeeded in warding off her attacker briefly."

Lestrade nodded.

"And that's what convinced the guy to murder her?"

"Yes."

"Any idea what the murder weapon was?" John finally piped up from behind the two men.

Sherlock craned his neck to look at his flat-mate.

"Heavy," he retorted.

John gave a mocking laugh.

"Thank you, Sherlock, for that enlightening deduction. You know what I meant."

The detective shrugged.

"Well, if these damned cameras would kindly vacate the room," he said, turning his attention particularly in Anderson's direction, causing the forensics specialist to glare in return, "Perhaps I could get a better look around."

Lestrade sighed and ordered all other officers in the room to step outside, earning muffled complaints from the small group. When it was just the three of them left, Sherlock began carefully walking about the room, appearing to inspect every square-inch of the space. John and Lestrade watched in silence as the detective proceeded with his work, marvelling at how much he seemed to resemble a bloodhound trailing the scent of a woodland animal.

"The yoga mat on the floor, John," Sherlock said after a few moments.

"Yeah? What about it?"

"What does it suggest?"

The detective was obviously trying to give his partner a chance to show off (or make himself look better, which was probably more likely), causing the doctor to stumble a bit over his words.

"Ah… she liked yoga?" John finally managed to get out, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

"Besides that, John, think!" Sherlock told him.

John took a minute to ponder the deeper meaning of the yoga mat (which was a sentence he thought he would never piece together inside his head), his mind seeming to get stuck on kale and medicine balls.

Running, sit-ups, weights…

"Weights?" John said without even meaning to.

Sherlock looked a bit surprised at the statement.

"Ahead of me I see, John. Yes. That's what I was driving at."

John could have sworn he saw the slightest bit of pride in his friend's expression.

"Wait, what? Weights?" Lestrade asked, obviously lost in the exchange.

"Did you not notice the state of her arms, Lestrade? I should have thought of it immediately. Stupid," the detective muttered to himself. "She lifts weights, Lestrade."

"And?" the inspector asked, still quite confused.

"That was the murder weapon!" John exclaimed, snapping his fingers when he came to the conclusion.

Sherlock smiled.

"Correct, John. Excellent."

Lestrade nodded in understanding.

"Right. Okay. But my people didn't find any weights anywhere around the flat."

Sherlock tightened his lips.

"They couldn't have been too heavy, considering her form. I'd say a mere four to five kilograms." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "No training tapes in her collection of DVDs. Where'd she train, then?"

"She could have learned a few techniques online," John said with a shrug.

Without much of a warning, Sherlock darted into the bathroom. He was only gone for about a minute before he emitted a loud 'Aha!' and came back out into the main living area.

"Here," he said, holding up an empty can of Lynx body spray for both men to see.

John raised an eyebrow.

"And what exactly did you have to go through to find that?"

"Let's just say Amanda recently finished her cycle," Sherlock said, twisting his mouth in disgust.

Both Lestrade and John groaned.

"Didn't need to know that," the inspector said. "What does a bottle of Lynx tell you, anyway?"

"What did Thomas smell like?" Sherlock asked, suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"What did he smell like when you arrested him? Describe the scent in as much detail as possible."

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Ah, well… he smelled like shampoo, I guess."

"What kind of shampoo?"

"Coconut, I guess. Why does this matter, again?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Do you really think a man who uses coconut shampoo would ever wear Lynx?"

Lestrade went to say something, but stopped himself when he did.

"Good point."

John nodded in agreement.

"So Amanda was cheating on Thomas."

"Precisely."

"Which gives Thomas all the more incentive to kill her," Lestrade said.

Sherlock gave him an are-you-honestly-that-stupid look and sighed.

"The man who killed her has a strong grip, Lestrade. I don't have to meet Thomas to know that he is as weak as they come."

"Who killed her, then?"

"Her trainer."

"Trainer?" John and Lestrade asked almost simultaneously.

"The lack of weight-training DVDs, the affair, the body-spray; it all adds up."

"Right. Because Lynx has 'perverted sweaty guy' written all over it," John said with an eye-roll.

"Check her contacts, voicemails, emails; anything that might give us a clue as to who this man is. John and I will be back at the flat. Message John with whatever you find," Sherlock said as he slipped on his leather gloves.

"I'm not your secretary, Sherlock, " John told him as he buttoned his coat.

"You're my assistant, John. It's what you do."

"Along with paying the bloody rent, apparently," the doctor mumbled. "Thanks, Greg," he said to inspector as he followed Sherlock out the door.

Lestrade nodded in response and looked back down at the body, sighing at the thought of the paperwork that would need done.

* * *

John set down his novel with a small sigh and rubbed at his eyes. He pulled out his phone, quickly checking the time, and discovered that it was already six o'clock.

"Got late quickly, didn't it?" he said, directing the remark at his flat-mate.

Unsurprisingly, John didn't get a response. He looked over at the man in front of him and noticed that he hadn't changed the position he had settled into about three hours beforehand; eyes closed, legs crossed, hands steepled beneath his chin; the usual.

John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, I think I might make myself some tea. Do you want a cup?"

Again, nothing.

John shook his head and stood up from his chair, taking a moment to stretch out his legs and neck, both of which had become pretty stiff from the position he had been sitting in for the past three hours while he read. He rolled his neck as he walked into the kitchen and grabbed his favourite kettle from beneath the sink, setting it down in the basin and turning on the water. It didn't take long for the kettle to fill and for John to get the water boiling. And, before he knew it, he had two mugs ready to serve. He chuckled to himself as he realized he had practically mastered the art of making tea.

He walked back into the sitting room, placing his mug beside his chair and the other beside Sherlock's.

"Whenever you decide to snap out of it," he said as he sat back down in his armchair, "There's some tea for you to drink, alright? I don't want it going cold."

He picked up the steaming mug of tea and took a long sip, his entire body warming at the feeling of the hot liquid making its way down his throat. His eyes fixated on Sherlock's somewhat still form, mostly noting the rapid movements beneath the man's lids. The sight made him smile. John always adored how full of life his flat-mate was, even when he was seemingly motionless.

Just then, Sherlock's eyes opened, and the detective blinked a few times.

"John," he said, acknowledging the doctor's presence with a nod.

He looked beside him at the mug of tea on the table and graciously picked it up, downing a few sips of the drink.

"You're welcome, by the way," John said with an annoyed frown.

"Has Lestrade texted you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes looking a bit distant.

John shook his head and set his mug down.

"Nope. Not yet. He'll probably send me something soon, though."

"As soon as he does, we're paying a visit to this trainer."

"Not at this time of night, we're not," John protested.

Right on cue, a text tone sounded in the room.

"I believe that's for you," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John gave him an annoyed look and checked the message.

"Bern. 'The Fifth Zone' on Bulstrode," he said, reading aloud the text.

Sherlock quickly typed in the name of what he supposed was the gym and found contact information on it.

"Apparently a highly reviewed gym."

"How many stars?"

"Four and a half."

"Hm. Not too shabby," John said with a nod.

"I'm assuming Bern is the nickname of our murderer?"

John shrugged.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Now, you're sure this is the guy we're looking for?"

"Amanda obviously tried to cut off the affair. He wasn't too happy about it."

"So he murdered her?"

"These are barbaric times, John."

The doctor sighed.

"Let's just call him a suspect for now, yeah? Until we have concrete evidence?"

"I'm not sure exactly what more evidence you could possibly hope for, but fine. Whatever makes you feel most comfortable."

Sherlock got up from his chair and made his way over to the coatrack, grabbing his Belstaff from the topmost peg and slipping it on.

"Sherlock…" John warned.

"Get your coat on, John."

"But Sherlock-"

"It's cold outside. I suggest you wear a pair of gloves." With a grand flourish, Sherlock threw on his scarf and promptly tightened it. "I'll hail a cab."

Before John could even try to protest, the detective was already down the stairs.

"Shit," John muttered as he grabbed his brown gloves from the kitchen table.

He then hurried out the door after his flat-mate.

* * *

Sherlock opened the glass door of the gym, exposing him and John to the overpowering scent of sweat.

"Well that's pungent," John said with a deep breath.

Despite the smell, it was rather warm inside. It was a pleasant feeling compared to bitter cold outside.

Sherlock ignored his comment and walked up to the front desk, prepared to confront the buff woman behind it.

"We're closing, mate," she said, licking her fingers and flipping through a health magazine.

"Police," Sherlock said, holding up Lestrade's badge and earning a small groan from John.

The receptionist sighed and shut the magazine, tossing it behind her and scrutinizing the detective.

"Sure don't look it."

"Undercover work," Sherlock said with a mocking tone.

The woman narrowed her eyes.

"What do you want?"

John stepped up beside Sherlock.

"We're looking for an employee of yours by the name of Bern. Could you direct us to him?"

The receptionist hesitated before answering.

"Why? What did he do?"

Sherlock went to tell her, but stopped when John firmly pinched his coat sleeve.

"We just have a few routine questions for him," the doctor said with a small smile.

The woman nodded.

"He should be in the weight room," she said, pointing down the hall.

"Thank you very much," John said.

Sherlock sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose, his eyes conveying a large amount of skepticism. "If you don't mind my asking, do you wear cologne?"

The receptionist tensed.

"I thought you were asking Bern the questions. Not me."

John laughed.

"Sorry about him. He's new."

And he started down the hallway, dragging Sherlock with him.

"It was her?" he whispered hurriedly.

Sherlock nodded.

"She's a trainer as well. Lesbian, apparently. Amanda must have been bisexual."

John bit the inside of his cheek.

"Shit. What are we going to do now?"

"Act natural."

When the two flat-mates entered the weight room, they saw an large man with dirty brown hair doing bicep curls, grunting as he did so.

"Looking good, Rambo," John remarked.

The man dropped his dumbbells and turned to face the doctor.

"And who might you be?"

"My partner, John Watson," Sherlock said. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, here about the murder of Amanda Schmidt."

The man cocked his head slightly.

"Who?"

"A woman your co-worker had been having an affair with and summarily murdered."

"No need to sugar-coat it," John mumbled under his breath.

"Bern?" the bigger man asked, his brow knitted in confusion and concern.

Sherlock and John nodded.

The man looked taken aback.

"Not Bernie?"

John stepped forward.

"She's more than your co-worker, isn't she?"

"Yeah, my sister," the man said, sitting down on a nearby bench. "You don't think she…?"

"She's perfectly capable of murder," Sherlock said.

The man put his head in his hands.

"You're kidding me."

"Hardly."

"What do I do?"

John walked over to the man and put a hand on his shoulder.

"What's your name?"

"Donald."

"Alright, Donald. I want you to do something for me."

Donald looked at him and nodded.

"Grab your things and leave. Don't make a big fuss about it, okay? Sherlock and I will do the same and we'll get some reinforcement from Scotland Yard."

Donald took a deep breath and stood up.

"Okay. Will Bernie be alright?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Well, considering she'll be convicted for murder, I can't imagine-"

"Sherlock!" John hissed at him. He smiled back at Donald. "We'll make sure she gets treated fairly."

"I don't think so," a deep, feminine voice said from behind him, followed by the sound of a gun's safety clicking off.

Sherlock and John turned around to face the woman.

"No one's arresting me," she said, the gun firmly gripped in her hand.

"Wrong," Sherlock said. "Where is the weight hidden?"

Bernie growled.

"None of your business."

"It is my business."

"Not when I'm the one with the gun in my hand." She glanced at her brother.

"Don, step aside."

Donald stood his ground.

"Bernie, no. Listen to John here. Put the gun down and we can sort things out."

She frowned.

"Little brother, I'm warning you…"

Donald didn't move.

"I don't think you'll kill me," he said.

Bernie's expression hardened.

"You're right. But that doesn't mean I won't shoot you."

The gun went off and Don went down, clutching his arm in pain.

Almost as fast as the bullet had been, John lunged at Bern, shoving Sherlock out of harm's way as he did so. He firmly grabbed the woman's wrist, trying to wrestle the gun from her tight grip, and it went clattering to the floor.

"Grab it, Sherlock!" he cried out.

The detective did as he was told, immediately scooping up the gun and aiming it at the two wrestling.

"Sherlock, no! Wait until you've… agh!... got a clear shot!" John shouted as he tried to worm his way out of Bern's grip.

"John-"

"You might kill her!"

Bern snarled as she got behind him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. With the force of a rhinoceros, she rammed John face-first into a large rack of weights. She let go as John fell to the floor and groaned. John flopped onto his back and made to get up when Bern pushed the rack of weights over. With a sickening crash, the rack landed on top of John, followed by the sound of his cracking bones and a soundless intake of air.

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

The detective glared at Bern and narrowed his eyes. The trainer met his gaze for a brief moment before sprinting out the door, and Sherlock ran after her, shouting a number of curses at her as he did so. Unfortunately, as soon as Sherlock followed her outside, he lost track of her. He would have continued searching if he hadn't remembered his injured flat-mate.

"John," he said breathlessly.

He ran back into the gym and into the weight room to find Donald sitting next to John while holding his own bleeding shoulder.

"I called an ambulance," the trainer said, gesturing to his cell phone lying on the floor.

Without a single word of acknowledgment, Sherlock slid onto his knees next to an unconscious and trapped John.

"John, please tell me you're alive," he pleaded.

John opened his eyes weakly and gasped for air.

"Sherl… oh God!" he grimaced in pain and started hyperventilating. "Sherl… I can't…"

"Shh, shh, it's alright, John, I'm here," Sherlock said, placing a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "There's an ambulance on the way. Tell me where it hurts. And don't say everywhere, because we both know that's a lazy answer."

John's breath rattled in his chest as he forced himself to calm down.

"Right arm's c-crushed… broken ribs… dunno how many… I-" He violently coughed, blood speckling his chin. "P-punctured lung, then…"

Sherlock whipped off his scarf and wiped away the blood from John's face, subsequently tossing the garment to the side.

"Okay, John, good."

Even through his half-closed lids, Sherlock could make out the annoyed look in his eyes.

"You know what I meant, John," he said, trying not to let concern dominate his voice.

"H-how's… Don…?" John wheezed.

Sherlock looked up at Donald who, despite looking a bit pale from blood loss, nodded to confirm that he was okay.

"He's fine," Sherlock told John. "The paramedics will take care of him."

"B-Bern?"

"I lost her," Sherlock said. "But I'll let Lestrade know that she's on the loose."

John nodded and closed his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock called. "John, no, don't go to sleep. Wake up." He shook John's shoulder. "Wake up. Stay with me."

John's lids weakly fluttered.

"Hm?"

"Stay awake, John. The ambulance will be here soon." He looked back at Donald. "Can you help me lift this off of him?"

"I think so," the man confirmed, turning his thoughts away from his shoulder.

Sherlock rocked back onto his haunches and took hold of one side of the rack.

"No…" John whimpered.

"John, we need to release the pressure from your body. It's only making things worse."

John tightened his lips and closed his eyes tightly.

"Don't drop it," Sherlock warned Donald.

"On three?" Don asked.

"On three."

"One, two, three!"

As the two men lifted, John gasped and cried out in pain, mixing with Don's own pained grunts. With a bit of effort, Don and Sherlock managed to set the rack upright, completely freeing John. The detective fell again to his knees and gently rested John's head in his lap.

"B-better," the doctor slurred.

"Just don't move, John," Sherlock said.

"Wasn't… p-planning on it."

Sirens echoed loudly outside.

"You'll be alright, John. You'll be alright," Sherlock soothed, keeping a hand on John's cheek. "Help is here."

* * *

Sherlock stared down at John with a disapproving look in his eyes, hardly missing the small tube branching off into either nostril and the cast on his arm.

"Will he make a full recovery?" he heard Lestrade ask behind him.

The doctor nodded.

"He'll have to go easy on the arm for a few weeks and he'll probably be a bit short of breath for a while, but in a few months, he'll be as good as new."

Lestrade emitted a relieved-sounding sigh.

"Good. Thanks doc."

"Call if you need anything," the doctor said with a smile before exiting the room.

"How are you doing, Sherlock?" the inspector asked.

Sherlock glared at the wrap around John's damaged ribcage.

"I'm fine."

"Liar."

Lestrade helped himself to a chair across the room.

"Poor bloke," he mumbled, looking pitifully at John. "You know, Sherlock, this wouldn't have happened if you two had waited until tomorrow."

"I realize."

"Idiots, both of you."

Sherlock ignored him and pulled up a second chair beside John's bed and sitting himself down, not once pulling his gaze from his flat-mate.

"What happened back there, anyway?" Lestrade asked.

"Did you release Thomas?"

"Answer my question, Sherlock."

"I will once you answer mine."

"Well I asked first."

Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh and slumped in his chair.

"Upon having only a short exchange with the receptionist, I discovered that it was her who was sexually active with Amanda behind Thomas's back, based on the fact that she reeked of Lynx, whilst her brother only smelled of dandruff shampoo. She was strong enough to dominate Amanda, considering her immense size and likely steroid abuse. I never once considered the possibility that a woman could be responsible for such a brutal crime, especially given the misleading evidence."

Lestrade nodded.

"Explain to me what happened to John, then."

"John and I were taking care to warn Donald of his sister's homicidal tendencies when the woman came up behind us and pulled out a gun. She first shot Donald in the shoulder, which I immediately judged to be a non-lethal wound, giving John room to work the gun from her grip. I had the chance to shoot her, and I should have taken it. But John insisted I not take the chance of killing her. Before I could even comprehend the full extent of the situation, she had smashed John's head into a pair of eighteen kilogram weights and sent the rest of the rack crashing on top of him. She ran before I could shoot. I lost her."

Lestrade finished scribbling a few things down on his notepad and closed it.

"Well, thanks for being cooperative for once in your life. This will actually be very useful."

As he stood up and straightened his coat, Sherlock spoke again.

"It's your turn to answer my question, Inspector."

Lestrade sniffed.

"Right. Yes, we released Thomas. Alright?"

Sherlock simply hummed in response.

"Okay." Lestrade patted John on the shoulder. "Wake up soon, mate. We can only keep this bastard calm for so long." And he left, leaving Sherlock with his own thoughts and worries.

* * *

About a day and a half later, the doctors were confident in removing the breathing tube and allowing John to breathe independently while he was closely monitored. Although his breaths were a bit restricted due to his sore lung and broken ribs, he was cleared to be left alone to rest.

As soon as he awoke, his head started throbbing and his throat felt as if it were on fire.

"Sherlock…" he whispered hoarsely.

Without a word, Sherlock grabbed a small paper cup with ice chips and spoon-fed his flat-mate a few. John greedily sucked at and swallowed the chips, thankful for the coolness it left behind.

"Thanks," he said with a smile, his voice still a bit croaky. "How long was I out?"

"Not long," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. "Only about two days. I'm afraid you'll be forced to stay here for a few more, however, until the doctors are sure you'll manage on your own."

John groaned.

"Great."

"Hardly."

John narrowed his eyes.

"Sarcasm."

"Ah."

Sherlock's text tone went off.

"I think that's for you," John winked.

Sherlock smirked and checked the message.

'_Found 'Bern'/Bernadette Krebs. Also found weapon hidden in her office. Come down to station ASAP. Don't bring weapons.'_

"Let me see," John said, grabbing the phone from Sherlock's readily outstretched arm.

He snorted as he finished reading the text.

""Don't bring weapons"?"

"A legitimate concern. If I went into the Yard armed, Lestrade might find himself with another dead woman on his hands."

John rolled his eyes.

"My God, you really are a drama queen, aren't you?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I suppose it's what I'm best at."

There was a moment of silence.

"I shouldn't have dragged you out there, John."

John scoffed.

"No shit."

"I'll readily take the blame."

The injured doctor nodded.

"I'll let you. After all, I did tell you we should have waited until we were absolutely sure-"

"I know."

"You nearly got Don and me killed."

"I know. I'm sorry."

John sighed.

"I just wish you'd listen to me."

Sherlock looked down at the floor.

"I'm sorry."

"Fine. S'fine. Let's just forget about it. Any word on Donald?"

The detective nodded.

"He dropped by yesterday. His left arm is currently in a sling, but it will be mobile within at least two weeks."

"Not too much blood loss?"

"A bit, but obviously not a worrying amount. He sends his "best wishes". His words, not mine, obviously."

"How's he been holding up?"

"He's decided to stay with his friend in Dublin while things are sorted out here."

"What about the gym?"

"Closed down until further notice."

John nodded.

"Fantastic. We solved a murder, shut down a business, and ruined a young man's life in one bloody night. Two, if you count Amanda's boyfriend. I think that's a new record."

"I've done better."

John chuckled.

"I'm sure you have; but I'd rather not hear those stories. They might make me think less of you. If such a thing is possible." He yawned. "God, I'm tired."

"Sleep, then. I need to pay Lestrade a visit, anyway."

"I'll see you soon?"

Sherlock placed John's cell next to the cup of ice chips.

"Text me if you need anything and I'll promptly show."

John nestled into his pillow.

"Thanks."

"Of course, John."

"Good luck," John called as Sherlock picked up his things and started to walk out of the room.

The detective turned to look over his shoulder.

"Oh, I assure you, John, I won't be needing it." He slipped on his coat and walked down the hallway. "Ms. Krebs, on the other hand, will be praying for a miracle," he muttered to himself.


	17. The Past is Passed (Part 1)

**This was recommended to me by TheImprobableOne.**

**Now, I know this is a one-shot collection, but I felt that this prompt required a bit more than just one chapter. So this is going to have more than one part to it.**

* * *

"It's your turn to be the patient, Harry!"

"But I'm always the patient. Why can't you be the patient?"

"Because I'm the doctor. Now lay down, please, M'am. You're very sick."

Harry sighed and laid down on the bed.

"You'd better not put anymore bandages on my forehead, John."

Little John smiled and grabbed the plastic stethoscope from his play med-kit.

"Okay, Miss." He placed the end on top of Harry's chest and pretended to listen to her heart. "Very interesting," he said, deepening his voice to make himself sound a bit older.

Harry smirked.

"How does it sound, doctor?"

"Like a drum," John said. "It's got a nice rhythm."

"Am I dying?"

"I don't think so."

Harry nodded.

"Good."

John grabbed the fake thermometer.

"Say 'Ahhhh'."

His sister played along and opened up her mouth as wide as it would possibly go, making the requested noise.

John put the thermometer in her mouth and waited a moment before pulling it out again. He squinted at the plastic piece and wrinkled his nose.

"Harry?" he whispered. "Is this good or bad?"

Harry rolled her eyes.

"It always says 37 on the sticker, John. That's good."

"What's bad?"

Harry sighed.

"Let's go with 39 degrees."

John nodded and cleared his throat, regaining his authoritative tone of voice.

"You have a fever. But I know what to do. Don't worry."

Harry couldn't help but smile.

"I'm glad you're here to save me, doctor."

John stuck his tongue between his teeth and dug through his bag, pulling out a bandage.

"John..." his sister warned, giving the item an annoyed glance.

"Shh. I'm your doctor," John said, emphatically.

"I told you not to use those things on me."

"Shut up," John told her.

And then he stuck the bandage on her forehead, earning a groan from her.

"There," he said, kissing the bandage. "All better."

Despite her slight annoyance, Harry giggled and accepted the "treatment".

"Thanks, doctor. I feel much better."

She then sat up and tousled her brother's hair, causing the young boy to grunt in frustration.

"Stop it, Harry!"

John looked at his younger self and sister with a smile, remembering how strong their relationship had once been. God, how he missed those days. Why had he so easily put them behind him?

Suddenly, he heard rushed footsteps clamber up the stairs of his old home.

"John! Harry!" a woman with a light, sweet-sounding voice whispered. "Keep it down, please! Your father's just got home and he's very tired."

"Sorry, Mum," young Harry said. "We were only playing."

His mother, back then, was a naturally pretty woman, with dark blonde hair, fair skin, and kind features. She, in this memory, was sporting an orange, flowered dress with a white apron. John's mother always adored that apron.

"Wash up, dears. And quickly; supper's almost ready," she told her children, smiling softly before rushing back down the stairs.

"I call dibs on the bathroom first!" young John said to his sister before rushing out of the bedroom.

"Runt!" Harry teased, watching as her brother left.

The room suddenly shook as a blinding light leaked through the window. John covered his eyes with his arm and hissed.

_"Patient has sustained a severe head injury and blood loss..."_ a foreign voice echoed throughout the bedroom.

_"John, please..."_ another, more familiar-sounding voice said.

The light leaking through the window suddenly broke the glass, and the room was swallowed in it.

John opened his eyes blearily, struggling to focus on his surroundings. He noticed a white ceiling above him, moving quite quickly and making him dizzy.

_"John!"_ a comforting voice called out to him.

It was unsettling how far away it seemed.

_"John, can you hear me?"_

John glanced down his nose, seeing the mask fixated over his mouth and nose.

_"Sir, we'll need you to stay behind!"_ a female voice shouted across him.

He looked in the direction of the voice and could barely make out a frail figure with long brown hair.

_"He's my friend!"_ the comforting voice said again.

John's head lolled in that direction. He could see the familiar outline of long, black curls and pale skin.

The figure looked down at him and reached out a hand, cupping his cheek.

_"It's alright, John. I'm here. I'm right here."_

Had John said something?

It was then that pain rocketed throughout his entire body. He could barely withhold the scream of pain that he emitted.

_"Shh, John, it's alright. I know it hurts."_

_"Sir, you need to let us work!"_

John watched as the figure was pushed away by the woman.

_"We're losing him!"_ a man said beside him.

He heard a long, continuous beep sound next to him, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

_"JOHN!"_

With a huge bolt of pain, John was back in his childhood home, staring into his kitchen.

"Set the table, John."

Young John nodded to his mother and rushed over to the stack of plates on the kitchen counter, carefully picking them up and carrying them back over to the table. Quickly, he laid them out, taking care to avoid dropping any.

"Have a seat, you two," his mother told him and his sister.

They promptly sat in their designated chairs, folding their hands on their lap and silently watching as their mother laid out dinner.

"Is it ready, yet?" a gruff man shouted from the living space.

"Just a minute, darling!"

The elder John looked on with horror as his father came marching into the kitchen, looking slightly drunk and very agitated.

"I've been waiting for ages! What does a man have to do to get some bloody food in his belly?"

John's mother gulped and pulled out her husband's chair.

"So sorry, dear. Margie kept me a bit late a-"

"Just serve up whatever crap you've got there. I'm starving."

"Right. Sorry."

Without a word, dinner was served, and older John looked on with a sick feeling in his stomach.

He now remembered why he blocked out most of his childhood.

He watched as he and his family ate their peas and roast, not daring to look each other in the eye, for fear of angering the man of the house.

John's father, after a couple minutes of complete silence, sighed grumpily and dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter, causing the rest of the family to wince.

"My day was fine, thanks," he said.

His wife cleared her throat and gently set her glass of water down.

"How was your day, dear?"

"Like you fucking care."

"George, please. There's no need-"

"For what? Cursing? I can curse as much as I fucking want to! It's my house, ain't it?"

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"Whatever."

Young Harry cleared her throat, earning a rather scary glare from her father.

"Did you want to say somethin'?" he asked her.

Harry nervously licked her lips and fumbled with her peas.

"I, erm... I got an A on my spelling test in school today."

"So what? Do you want a medal?"

Harry shook her head and swallowed.

"No, sir. Sorry, sir."

John's father looked at him.

"Wanna say something too, Johnny?"

Young John stayed silent.

"Oi!" his father bellowed. "Answer me when I'm talking to you! And don't play with your food. You aren't a goddamned animal."

John still refused to speak.

"Leave him alone!" older John shouted at his father, of course without receiving a response.

"Dad, he doesn't have much to say," Harry said quietly.

"Harriet..." John's mother said from across the table, trying to shut her up.

"What did you say to me?"

"He doesn't have much to say... Sir," Harry gulped. "All we did was-"

Their father abruptly threw his chair back and stood, staring daggers at his daughter.

"Was I talking to you?!"

Harry shut her mouth.

Her father grabbed her by one of her braids and pulled slightly.

"Stop it!" the elder John screamed, helpless to do anything.

"Was. I. Talking. To. You?"

"No, Sir," Harry whimpered.

"I have nothing to say," John said from his chair.

His father looked at him and narrowed his eyes, releasing his hold on Harry.

"You have nothing to say, what?"

"Sir."

His father nodded and returned to his seat, scooting his chair up.

"You and your sister eat your food and then go upstairs. I don't want to hear another peep from you two tonight. Got me?"

John and Harry nodded.

"Good. Now shut up and eat."

The elder John glared at the memory of his father, rejoicing in the fact that he was dead.

"Good thing that arsehole's six feet under," he muttered.

He walked away from the kitchen and into the sitting room, immediately faced with another memory.

His younger self was seated closely in front of the television, watching his favourite cartoon (which was all just blurred colours; John couldn't remember exactly what it was).

"John, what are you doing up at this hour?" his mother asked, shuffling in with her purple slippers on and rubbing her eyes.

She clucked her tongue.

"Darling, don't sit so close to the tele. You'll destroy those lovely eyes of yours."

She walked over to the television and turned it off.

"Come on, now. Off to bed."

John stayed still.

"John?"

"I don't want to sleep."

His younger self sounded a bit older than in the last memory; probably about ten.

"Why ever not?" his mother asked him.

"I'm scared. And my face hurts."

His mother frowned and sat down next to him.

"What happened? Did Daddy hit you again?"

John nodded.

"Okay, dear, let me see."

His mother gently took hold of his chin and turned his head toward her. She grimaced at the cut on his lip and the bruise on his eye.

"John, what did you say to him?"

The young boy sniffed.

"He was trying to hit Harry."

"And you got in the way?"

"I don't like it when Harry gets hurt."

His mother wrapped and arm around his shoulder.

"That was very brave of you, John."

"Really?"

His mother smiled.

"A bit like a superhero, actually."

John laughed half-heartedly.

"I guess, yeah."

"Is Harriet alright?"

"Yeah. She's asleep."

His mother nodded.

"Good. So is your father."

John leaned into his mother and closed his eyes, enjoying the gentle touch of her hand gently combing through his hair.

"Mum?" he asked, sleepily.

"What is it?"

"I'm tired."

"Then sleep, darling."

"But I don't want to."

"Are you scared?"

John nodded.

"Well," his mother whispered, "Why don't I tell you a fairytale, then? One that will make you feel safe?"

John opened his eyes slightly.

"Aren't fairytales for girls?"

"Don't let the name deceive you. Fairytales can be quite manly, actually."

"Really?"

"Mhm. Like Jack and the Beanstalk."

"I've heard that one before."

"Did you like it?"

John nodded.

"Then I'll tell it to you. Why don't we sit on the sofa?"

John smiled and followed his mother over to the couch, letting her sit down before lying down beside her and resting his head on her lap.

"Now, where do we begin?"

"Once upon a time is a good place to start," older John said in sync with his younger self, smiling as he did so.

A good memory, this was.

"Good idea," his mother chuckled. "Alright. Once upon a time, there was a young lad named Jack..."

Older John suddenly keeled over and fell to the floor, gasping, feeling unable to breathe.

Then there was blinding pain.

"...the beanstalk grew and grew until it reached the heavens..."

The room started to shake.

Another shock of pain.

The bright light streamed through the windows again.

"...the giant chased him across the clouds..."

The room began to dissolve as another volt of pain shot throughout his body. Through teary eyes, he watched as his younger self and his mother disappeared.

"...and they all lived happily ever after."

One more shock, and the room exploded into white light again.

_"We've got a pulse!"_

John looked around the painfully white room, finding his breathing quite restricted and his body in an incredible amount of pain.

And then everything went dark again.

* * *

**Just to let you know, this is Part 1/4. I've pre-written this story (so no worries there), but I wanted to be evil and keep you all waiting. So the next part won't be up for a couple of hours. You're welcome. :3**


	18. The Past is Passed (Part 2)

"Oi! Pansy!"

John sighed and continued walking to his classroom.

"Leave me alone, Bruce."

"You were late to your morning beating again. Haven't we talked about this?"

"Yeah. At least a hundred times."

Bruce grabbed him by the collar and smashed him up against the wall.

"Do we need to have another talk?"

John wrinkled his nose.

"Preferably after you brush your teeth."

Bruce growled and smashed him against the wall again, causing him to groan a bit.

"What did you say to me?"

"Put me down," John whimpered, finding that his feet were actually off the floor.

"What did you say to me?!"

"He said to put him down."

Bruce looked over his shoulder at a young girl about John's age, wearing a pink blouse tucked into her uniform skirt.

"Go away, Princess. This is between the men."

She stepped up to him and crossed her arms.

"Not anymore, it's not. Put him down."

"Or what?" Bruce sniggered.

"Or you'll be sorry, you big ugly brute."

"Go away!" John hissed at her. "I can handle this!"

"Shut up, Runt!" Bruce shook him.

"I'm going to ask you one last time: Put. Him. Down," the girl said.

Bruce dropped John and turned around to face the girl.

"I ain't afraid of a tiny little Barbie doll like you."

The girl smiled evilly.

"You should be."

And she delivered Bruce a swift and hard kick in the nuts, sending him to the floor in a heap.

"Touch him again, and those balls will be more than bruised. Got it?"

Bruce snarled and stood up, still clutching his groin.

"You're crazy!"

"Look who's talking!"

Grumbling, Bruce shuffled away, pushing John to the ground as he did so.

"What a bully," the girl said once he was gone, helping John to his feet.

"I could have handled it," John mumbled, brushing himself off.

"You were doing a great job," the girl said sarcastically. "You're welcome, by the way."

John looked at her angrily for a second before softening his expression.

"Thanks."

"No problem," the girl beamed. "My name's Rose. Rose Wallace."

"John. John Watson."

The two children shook hands.

"Want to eat lunch together?" Rose asked.

John was thrown a bit off guard but the sudden question.

"What?"

"Lunch? Today?"

John nodded hesitantly.

"Sure, I gue-"

"Good! I'll meet you by the oak tree outside!"

And with one last smile, Rose hurried off, leaving the young John Watson confused and slightly enamoured.

John sighed after watching the memory play out before him.

He had forgotten Rose. His best friend for the longest time. Really, his only friend. They loved being around each other. He loved being around her. She was always there to make him laugh, to make him smile, and to make him feel like he had some purpose in the world.

How had it all turned to crap so fast?

He walked down the hallway of his primary school and opened the door to the back, faced with not only the outside, but the outside of his secondary school.

He saw himself and Rose, about sixteen years of age, sitting on the bench in the courtyard. Rose was reading something on notebook paper. John stepped closer to see what was going on.

"'And they all lived happily ever after.' Wow," Rose said with a snort.

"What?"

"Talk about a cliche."

"Oh, shut up," young John muttered.

Rose giggled and punched him playfully in the arm.

"I'm only teasing. It's really quite good, John."

John smiled.

"You think so?"

"It's sure to earn you an A."

John took a bite from his apple as he put the paper back in his satchel.

"You know, Creative Writing isn't really fun without you in it," he said as he swallowed the bit of apple.

Rose shrugged and munched on a piece of her sandwich.

"Writing's not really my area. I prefer art."

"Writing *is* art."

"I mean painting, silly," she said with a smirk.

John shrugged.

"You might like writing, actually. If you have a knack for painting, and I know that you do, you'd probably be really good at writing."

Rose set down her sandwich and crossed her legs.

"Nah, s'alright. I failed English when I was in primary school, anyway."

"So what?"

"So, that means I'm not any good at writing."

"Nonsense," John said.

"Such language," Rose said with fake offence. "You'd better watch that mouth of yours!"

John grinned.

"Thank you, Mrs. Sarcasm. I'll keep that in mind."

Rose laughed for a minute before clearing her throat and settling down.

"Anyway," she said. "How's Harry?"

John's smile disappeared.

"She's drinking, now."

Rose frowned.

"Really?"

"And she's still hanging around that Riley guy. If Mum finds out, she'll flip."

Rose blew out a long stream of air.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Have you talked to Harry much about it?"

"No."

"Have you tried?"

"No."

"I'm sure if you-"

"Can we not talk about Harry right now?"

Rose nodded and backed off.

"Sure. Sorry."

"It's okay. Let's just... let's not talk about my family right now."

"Sure."

They sat in silence and ate, watching as other kids walked through the courtyard talking and playing around.

Without much of a warning, Rose handed John her ice pack.

"What's this for?" John asked her.

"For the bruise on your wrist. That looks painful."

Rose smiled sadly at him, gently placing the ice on his wrist.

John blushed.

"Thanks."

Just then, the bell rang.

"Crap. I should get going. I don't want to get yelled at by Mr. Pink again."

John nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course."

"You can keep that ice pack," Rose said with a serious expression. "I have a feeling you'll want it in the future."

"Oh... okay," John said.

"Later!" Rose called, waving before she ran off to class.

The elder John watched as she ran by, and promptly decided to follow her inside, anticipating another memory to come from it.

As he opened the door, he found that his suspicions were confirmed. This time, he was in a bedroom. Not his own, but Rose's. The walls were painted a lovely shade of blue and were covered in posters of artists she loved and bands she listened to.

"And what's the answer?" he heard his younger self say.

He looked over to see himself and Rose seated on her bed, Calculus homework laid out on the covers.

"Oh, who the hell cares?" Rose groaned, collapsing onto her pillow. "You don't need to know this crap in the real world."

"How about we take a water break?" John smiled, closing the textbook.

Rose sighed and stared up at her ceiling.

"Hey John?"

"Yeah?"

"Where do you see yourself in the future?"

"Depends. How far are we talking?"

"Like, ten years. Where do you see yourself?"

John shrugged.

"I don't know. Probably working as a doctor with a wife. Maybe kids."

"Living a sheltered life, huh?"

"Maybe. It's hard to say."

Rose closed her eyes and smiled.

"I see myself travelling. A lot. Paris, Africa, Germany, China, America; painting and immersing myself in the culture."

John set down the textbook and homework on the floor and laid down next to Rose, looking up at the ceiling along with her.

"Not with anyone?"

Rose shrugged.

"Maybe, maybe not. I guess it would depend on if I met the right person, you know?"

John smirked.

"I know what you mean."

"No kids, though. I wouldn't want to drag them around with me."

"Makes sense."

"It's a shame I won't live long enough for that to happen."

John frowned.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about that."

"It's the elephant in the room, John. It's kind of hard _not _to talk about it."

John sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"I don't like to talk about it."

Rose sighed and joined him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, well it's no fun for me either. After all, _I'm _the one who's lost all her hair. And you know how much I loved my hair."

John put his head in his hands.

"Look, John," Rose said. "I hate to sound so negative, but I'm seriously just being realistic. I mean, we both know this can't end well. So instead of faking our way through this, pretending that everything's okay and making things awkward, why don't we just face the music? Accept what's happening and move on?"

"Because you're my friend, Rose! I don't want you to..." John bit the inside of his cheek. "I don't want to lose you."

"And I don't want to leave."

Rose wrapped her arm around John, and the two of them sat there, staring out the window at the night sky.

"I love you, Rose."

Rose smiled.

"I love you too, John."

As the memory seemed to come to a close, older John could hardly stifle a broken-sounding sob.

Only about two months after this, Rose's condition worsened and she was admitted to the hospital.

And three weeks after that, she passed away.

John sniffed and went to walk out the door, when a disembodied voice echoed in his brain and stopped him in his tracks.

_"John..."_ it said.

It was the same voice he'd heard before in the waking world.

_"John... idiot... wake up..."_

Who was it? He couldn't exactly place his finger on it.

_"Don't leave me here alone."_

And just like that, the voice stopped, leaving him to shake his head and walk out the door.

* * *

This memory was new.

It wasn't as mellow as the other ones had been.

No, this one was far worse.

It burned like fire here. John found that his brow was covered in a thick layer of sweat. Looking down, he discovered sand at his feet. In the distance he heard yelling and screaming. Explosions and gunfire.

And then he knew where he was.

Afghanistan.

John sunk down to his knees, holding his head.

He didn't want this. He didn't want to relive this.

"Please, just make this stop!" he screamed.

He looked up and saw himself holding Murray in his arms, trying to stop the kid's wound from bleeding, begging him to hold on.

He watched again as Murray died.

Then he saw the Afghan soldier walk up behind him. Saw as he turned around and fought the soldier, trying to get the better of him. Saw as the soldier pushed him off and immediately fired, sending the bullet into his shoulder, ripping through tissue and muscle.

John instinctively cried out and clutched his shoulder, the pain of it more intense than he remembered.

"Make it stop!" he cried.

Then that same voice from earlier came back.

And the pain stopped.

And the memory stopped.

It was just him and the voice.

_"I'm here, John."_

John felt a pressure in his hand. He looked down to see what on earth it was, but found nothing.

Yet he felt it there; a warm sensation wrapping around his right hand.

And that voice.

_"You're safe, John. I'm here."_

Who's voice was that?

_"You're alright."_

The more it spoke, the more familiar it became.

_"I'm right here."_

A baritone voice; deep and soothing.

_"It's me."_

And suddenly, John placed it.

"Sherlock," he whispered.


	19. The Past is Passed (Part 3)

John looked up from where he was kneeling and saw the detective seated in his favourite dark chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin.

"Your tea's getting cold," Sherlock said.

John cocked his head.

"Me?" he asked, confused as to how a memory could possibly be addressing him directly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course you, John. Who else is there?"

John blinked a bit.

"But aren't you...?"

"A memory? No. I thought you'd have figured that out by now."

John furrowed his brow.

"Then what-"

"Mind palace."

"What?"

"As ridiculous as it seems, John, you do have a mind palace. However, it is a bit disorganised," Sherlock said, distaste evident in his tone.

"Is that what I've been walking through this whole time?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. And, as I said before, your Mind Palace is quite disorganised. A downright mess."

John took a deep breath and stood up.

"That would explain the weird memory hopping that was going on."

Sherlock shrugged.

"At least your memories were in chronological order." He rested his hands on his chair. "Do sit down. You seem rather fatigued."

John, without even considering debating the offer, stumbled over to his chair and sat down with a sigh.

"Jesus, that was insane," he mumbled.

"You just needed a bit of guidance," Sherlock said as he took a sip of his own tea. "You haven't had the opportunity to explore your own mind, much less organise it, so losing your way was rather inevitable. You're welcome."

"Thanks."

"I'm not the Sherlock you ought to be thanking."

"What?"

"I'm simply a mental construct of the mind, my function primarily being to create a false sense of security."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I suppose it means that, to you, I am the very definition of "home"."

John smiled slightly.

"Oh... right. Of course."

"Now, as I said before: your tea is getting cold."

John's smile widened and he picked up his mug, inhaling the bitter tea and taking a long sip.

"This is nice," he said as he swallowed the comforting beverage.

"That is the intended purpose," Sherlock said.

John took another deep breath and another sip of tea.

"I do hope you realise, John, that you can't stay here," Sherlock told him.

John gulped down his tea.

"What?"

"As long as you're here, you're separated from the waking world; a prisoner of your own mind."

"And?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Remember when I pointedly hinted to you that there is another Sherlock?"

John slowly nodded.

"Right. Yeah. Is he-"

"The Sherlock who is readily awaiting your return to consciousness in the outside world? Yes."

John looked taken aback.

"'Readily awaiting'? That doesn't sound like him."

Sherlock (or the image of him, at least) chuckled softly.

"You would like to think that, wouldn't you? After all, your mind is the one responsible for the particularly cold incarnation of Sherlock sitting before you, isn't it?"

"Are you suggesting that Sherlock... actually cares?"

"I wouldn't be unless you knew it somewhere in the back of your mind."

John set down his tea.

"John, are you really so afraid of allowing yourself to fall for a person, platonically or not, that you have forced yourself to believe that everyone is incapable of loving you so that you don't want to love them back?"

John stared in silence at his knee.

"Why are you afraid, John?"

John closed his eyes.

"I know the answer to that question. But so do you. I want to hear you say it. Why are you so afraid?"

John felt tears welling up as he opened his eyes again.

"Because I'm tired of losing everyone."

Sherlock nodded.

"Harry, Rose, Murray... You loved them all."

John nodded.

"I still do."

"And it hurts."

John felt a tear roll down his cheek.

"Every minute of every day."

"But that's a part of being human, John. You know that."

John swallowed hard.

"I know."

"If you know, then why do you continue to dwell on the past?"

"I just can't let it go," John said with a small sob.

"You can. You just won't. And while you're sitting here refusing to accept the past and move on, there is a supposed sociopath seated by your bedside, who cares deeply about you and wants you to wake up."

John nodded solemnly.

"And I care about him too."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled like a fire, the way they always did when he was passionate about something.

"Then if you care about him, John, you will let go. You will let go, and you will wake up and you will let him love you."

John looked at Sherlock with a pleading expression.

"But how do I do that?"

"Accept that what's past is past," a young Harry said, suddenly appearing beside him.

"That you can't change what's past," Murray said.

"And that you can only change the future," Rose said.

"Because remember, darling;" his mother told him as she kneeled in front of him, putting a gentle hand on his cheek, "You won't get your happily ever after if you can't get past the beginning of the story."

John looked at his mother, then Rose, then Murray, then Harry, and finally at Sherlock.

And he nodded.

And he smiled.

"I think I can do that."

"Then make it happen."

The white light returned, this time flooding gently through the window and slowly filling up the flat. The memories of Rose, Murray, and Harry all faded away, and John's mother kissed him on the cheek before fading away as well.

Before John lost sight of Sherlock, he smiled at him.

"Thank you," he said.

Sherlock winked.

"We're in _your _mind. You have no one to thank but yourself."

And then Sherlock and the flat disappeared, engulfed by the light.


	20. The Past is Passed (Part 4: Final)

John slowly opened his eyes, first noticing the persistent beeping sound next to him. He then became aware of a warm feeling in his hand. And as his vision slowly returned, he saw that the warm feeling was the product of a hand holding his.

He blinked the blurriness away from his vision in order to better see who was connected to the hand, and smiled when he saw those familiar dark, black locks resting on his thigh.

Weakly, he squeezed the detective's hand, hoping that the action wouldn't wake the man, but would only confirm that he was indeed real and not some sort of hallucination. Although he was relieved the latter was true, his first hopes were dashed when Sherlock shot up like a rocket and looked him straight in the eye, surprise, worry, and relief all etched into one expression.

"Hey," John whispered hoarsely with a smile on his face.

"John..." Sherlock said, the name barely escaping his lips.

The man looked unsure of what to do, noticeably debating between a hug or a 'How do you do?'.

John laughed.

"I promise I won't tell anyone."

It was with this promise that Sherlock let himself embrace his best friend, tightly holding him for what seemed like hours to them both.

And God did it feel good.

* * *

"Doctor Watson, you really did surprise us," the doctor said, placing her stethoscope back around her neck after checking John's heart. "Things certainly weren't looking good for you, and our hopes of you waking up at all weren't very high, let alone within three and a half weeks."

"He has always been a fighter," Lestrade said from his corner of the room with a smirk.

The doctor laughed a bit.

"I suppose, yes. Of course, you'll need to stay here to rest and heal up, Doctor Watson, but you're on the path to complete recovery."

"Can we stay with him for a while?" Molly said from beside Lestrade.

"Of course," the doctor said with a smile. "Visiting hours aren't over until eight o'clock this evening. You've got a while."

John nodded a thanks at the doctor and watched as she left the room and shut the door behind her.

John smiled at everyone in the room, noticing how dumbstruck they all still looked, despite his waking moments occurring over an hour ago.

"Nice to see you all," John said. "So, um... coma, huh?"

Lestrade finally spoke again.

"Yeah, it was a rather bad car crash, mate. We were all sure you weren't gonna pull through. Sherlock being the exception."

John looked over at his flat-mate who was currently still seated beside him, his hand resting on the bed.

He looked back at Lestrade and smirked.

"Well, I'm glad I exceeded everyone's expectations."

Molly blushed.

"Oh no, it was nothing like that! We never doubted you John, it was just that..."

John laughed.

"It's alright. It's okay, Molly. I never thought you did doubt me. From what I was told, it sounds like I was in pretty bad shape."

"And still are, dear," Mrs. Hudson said with a grim look on her face.

"If you look past the crap hooked up to me, I'm as right as rain."

The landlady shook her head and clucked her tongue.

"Always with the jokes, John. Not even a coma changes you, does it?"

"You'd be surprised."

Molly cleared her throat and hesitantly stepped closer to John, placing a tentative hand on his foot.

"I, erm... glad you're better. Really. I was actually quite scared."

"We all were," Lestrade said. "And I can't say that enough." The inspector sighed. "You just can't keep yourself out of trouble, can you?"

"Trouble is my middle name." John knitted his brow. "Or it would be if it weren't... oh hell, you know what I mean."

All of them exchanged a good laugh, excluding Sherlock, which seemed to relax them significantly.

John still had a grin plastered on his face when he looked back at Sherlock, but he immediately lost it when he saw his friend's features looked troubled.

"Hey, not to be rude- I mean, I know I just woke up from a coma- but can you guys actually leave me and Sherlock alone for a bit? I would like to talk to him."

The three others exchanged glances and shrugged, all nodding and saying they wouldn't mind at all, quickly hurrying out of the room to wait in the lobby for a while.

When all was quiet, John turned to face Sherlock again.

"How are you holding up?" he asked.

Sherlock's eyes went from the floor to John's eyes, and the doctor didn't miss the exhaustion and fear that laid in that gaze.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asked, his doctorly instinct kicking in.

Sherlock still seemed lost for words.

"Sherlock," John said, grabbing his friend's hand and squeezing it tightly. "It's okay now. I'm right here."

Sherlock tightly gripped John's hand in return, feeling the familiar roughness of his callused hands.

"I thought I was going to lose you," he said, almost whispering.

John sighed.

"I think you nearly did."

Sherlock's expression hardened slightly.

"That's not very comforting."

"Because you're such an expert," John teased.

Sherlock laid his head back down on John's thigh and just focused on breathing, eating up every second that John so much as shifted in bed.

"So," John said, snuggling into his pillow and the warmth of Sherlock, "What have you been up to this whole time?"

"Waiting for you to wake up," Sherlock said, sounding like a helpless child.

John swallowed a lump that had begun to form in his throat.

"Huh."

"What?"

"I just... it's a pleasant thing to hear is all. You know, that you actually care."

"I've never been particularly adept at expressing my particular emotions, John," Sherlock mumbled. "But don't think that that means I don't care for you."

John smirked.

"Would you go as far as to say that you love me?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I've never considered the thought. But I suppose, in a platonic, less emotional way, I do... love you."

"Ditto."

Sherlock hummed in response, causing John to bite his lip.

"Sorry. Do you want me to stop talking?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I haven't heard you speak in the longest time, John. Please talk as much as you feel you must. I enjoy the sound of your voice."

John smiled and cleared his throat.

"Well, I'm out of conversation starters, but I have a good alternative. How about a fairytale?"

"Stories for children? No, I'm fine."

"Don't let the name deceive you. They can actually be quite lovely for both children and adults. Especially if you just want to fall asleep to the sound of someone's voice."

Sherlock paused before speaking.

"Very well. What story do you propose?"

"Ever heard of Jack and the Beanstalk?"

"I believe at one point in my life, yes."

"Well I'm about to tell it to you again. If that's alright with you."

Sherlock nodded.

"Please continue."

John smiled and closed his eyes.

"Well, let's see... I think 'Once Upon a Time' is a good place to start."

And for the next hour, John told his best friend his favourite tale about a young hero who went from a poor, sad young lad to the happiest, richest boy alive.

"...and they lived happily ever after," he said upon reaching the end of the story, relishing that open-ended sentence.

John smiled and look down at his flat-mate, now calm and asleep. And maybe it was the story, or the trials he had faced inside the maze in his head, but somehow John realised as soon as he looked back at his sleeping friend that he had truly reached _his_ happily ever after. Sure, it was a bit dark and twisted and maybe even a little bit insane.

But it was his.

THE END


	21. The Damsel in Distress

**Well then. Short version. Not dead. ;)**

* * *

John came trudging up the steps of 221B, wincing as every move jostled his badly beaten body. All he wanted to do was collapse right where he was and let the lingering threat of unconsciousness take over. But he just kept reminding himself that all he needed to do was get upstairs to his room and stitch himself up. Then he could swallow some pain meds and sleep in his own bed. His warm, soft, cozy bed.

Finally, he reached the top of the first set of stairs, stopping to take a few deep breaths before starting up again towards his bedroom. But before he could even brace himself for the long journey ahead of him, he heard Sherlock calling his name.

"You're late," the detective said as he stepped into the hall.

John nodded hurriedly.

"Yeah, sorry. Mike and I got talking, and-"

"You're a mess."

The words weren't said out of anger; in fact, if John didn't know better, he would have claimed them to be ones laced with concern.

"Long night."

He heard Sherlock take a step closer to him.

"You look as if you're in a great deal of pain, John."

"My head hurts. That's it."

John could feel his flat-mate's eyes boring into his skull.

"I'm going to bed," he said hurriedly. "'Night."

Before Sherlock could protest, John was already heading upstairs, biting back the pain that was caused by each step he took.

Safe inside his bedroom, he shut his door and limped over to his bed, dropping down onto it with a satisfied grunt. He sat there for a moment, taking in small, controlled breaths to relax his still rapidly pounding heart.

He suddenly heard the sound of violin music drifting about the flat, indicating that Sherlock had decided to leave him be.

"Thank God for that," he mumbled.

After taking another deep breath, John slowly eased himself up from the mattress, hissing through gritted teeth. It seemed like years to him before he was settled down once more with his med-kit beside him and his mirror positioned in front of him.

After managing to remove his sweat and blood-stained jacket and jumper, he was finally able to assess the damage.

He gently prodded the deep gash on his right bicep, noting the risk of infection and scarring.

"Stitches," he muttered.

He then lifted up his undershirt, taking in the large bruises on his stomach, one of them a bit purpler than he would have liked.

"...and painkillers."

John turned his focus to his mangled face. A black eye was definitely in its beginning stages, and his nose, while thankfully not broken, was still bloody, a slow river of red streaming from his left nostril.

"I can't just have one night out, can I?" John groaned. "Shit."

With a resigned sigh, John opened up his kit and laid out the necessary supplies for sutures.

"Okay..." he breathed.

Carefully, he picked up a few alcohol prep pads and worked on cleaning up the wound on his arm. It stung tremendously, but he knew it was for the best. He was a doctor, after all.

Now came the hard part: the stitches.

John was no stranger to self-operating on himself, but he always hated it. Every minute felt like an hour, and once all was said and done he was absolutely exhausted.

Biting his lip, he threaded the needle and aimed it where he wanted to begin.

"One, two..." he counted.

He took a deep breath and hit three before slowly pushing the needle and thread into his skin. It really did hurt, and John could barely stifle the numerous groans his throat seemed to want to make audible, but soon enough he was nearly finished.

Just as he was about to push the needle through one more time, he was startled by a sudden voice at his door.

"If you wanted to be successful in fooling me, John, you really should have locked your door."

John jumped, wincing as the still-tender skin around his arm throbbed.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he cried, releasing the needle so it dangled from his arm. "Ever heard of knocking?"

Sherlock shut the door behind him.

"You're hurt."

John chuckled humourlessly.

"No shit."

Sherlock advanced closer to the bed.

"What did they take?"

John sighed.

"Just my wallet."

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"They took your wallet and your cell."

John raised an eyebrow.

"How did you...?"

"Whenever you arrive back at the flat, you always place your cell either on the kitchen table or your nightstand. Both areas were vacant while you were absent and once you returned."

John nodded.

"Of course."

The doctor picked up the needle again and went to resume stitching up his wound, when suddenly he found another hand stopping his own.

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock said as he sat beside his friend. "Allow me."

John reluctantly let his hand fall to his side, allowing Sherlock access to his wound. Within a minute, Sherlock had finished up the job and was cleaning the area.

"Thanks," John mumbled.

"You honestly thought you could hide this from me?" Sherlock said as he gently cleansed the sutured area with another pad.

John shrugged.

"Well, I had hoped I could hold you off long enough for me to get myself fixed up."

"And why would you want to do that?"

"Because having you nurse me is bloody humiliating."

Sherlock paused.

"How so?"

"I'm capable of taking care of myself, Sherlock. So I hate it when you come in like a knight in shining armour to whisk me away from danger."

"Which would make you the damsel in distress."

John blushed.

"Yeah."

Sherlock set down the pad and turned John's head towards him.

"John..." he whispered, tentatively tracing his fingers over the numerous injuries on the doctor's face.

"It's not that bad, really."

"Quite the contrary, actually."

"It doesn't hurt all that much."

"Mhm."

John became indignant.

"I should know; it's my face."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Oh? What if I were to strike you across the cheek right now?"

The doctor scowled.

"I'd throttle you until you turned purple."

Sherlock nodded.

"That you would. Now, do stop acting like a petulant child. That's my job."

John, despite his own resentment, couldn't help but feel a bit relieved as Sherlock cared for him. He found the gentleness of his friend's touch on his own bruised and battered skin to be of great comfort; it reminded him a bit of his mother.

The touch and coolness of the water rinsing away the dirt suddenly left him.

"I will return shortly with ice and medication," Sherlock said.

He was out and in in about a minute, this time kneeling in front of his wounded flatmate.

"Take off your shirt," he commanded him.

John, still a bit dazed from the care he had been receiving, blinked himself out of his state as he registered the request.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, I've seen you topless before. Don't act as if it's something new. I would like to see the damage done to your torso."

John swallowed and nodded, slowly removing his shirt.

Sherlock's already pale skin blanched as his eyes fell upon the unsightly shades of yellow, black, and purple decorating John's upper body.

"How painful?" he asked, his hand hovering over the patterns of discolouration.

John swallowed hard.

"I erm... not that painful, I suppose."

"You "suppose"?"

"Fine, it hurts like hell," the doctor sighed.

Sherlock grabbed one of the packs of ice he had earlier set on the nightstand and placed it gently on one of John's bruises, causing the poor doctor to draw in a sharp breath.

"Hold this here," Sherlock ordered.

John complied and held the ice in place as Sherlock placed another pack on another bruise.

"How does that feel?"

"Cold."

"Well, it's ice."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I wouldn't have figured that out without your powers of deduction."

Sherlock tightened his lips and looked John in the eyes.

"Enough with the sarcasm, John."

He grabbed the nearby bottle of medication and shook two pills into his hand. John hastily took them froM him and swallowed them satisfactorily.

"Now that you've been properly taken care of, explain to me exactly what happened," Sherlock demanded.

John sighed tiredly.

"Sherlock, I'm so tired and in a lot of pain. Can we just leave it until tomorrow morning?"

"Absolutely not."

"Fine," John groaned. "Two men, both caucasian, one brunette and one blonde. The blonde, the biggest one, was the leader; he threw the punches and had the knife. The brunette had a crowbar. I broke his nose and managed to kick the blonde in the nuts before he slashed me with the knife."

Sherlock laid the ice pack he was holding aside and picked up John's left hand, carefully examining the bruised knuckles.

"You hit the brunette in the left cheekbone."

John nodded.

"What else?"

"They, ah..." John rubbed his temples. "They... they recognised me. They knew I was your flatmate."

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"What?"

"Yeah. They hit me a few times with the crowbar before one of them said I was "that detective's... "buddy"."

"Buddy?"

John turned red.

""Boyfriend"."

Sherlock nodded.

"I see. Go on."

"Yeah. That's when they grabbed my wallet and phone and ran off."

"Average muggers, then."

"Muggers who know and are scared of you, apparently."

"Rightfully so."

John removed the ice to take a peek at his bruise, now surrounded by a dark shade of pink from the cold.

"They certainly did a number on me."

"You shouldn't have provoked them."

John raised an eyebrow.

"And what would you have done differently in that situation?"

"Nothing."

"Then what place are you in to be scolding me?"

"I wasn't scolding you," Sherlock smirked. "Good work."

John blinked a moment before he smiled a bit himself.

"Thanks."

Suddenly, the detective hopped up onto his feet.

"A blonde and a brunette, you said?"

"Ah, yeah. Why?"

Sherlock rolled down his sleeves.

"I know who they are."

"What? How...?" John stopped himself. "You know what? Never mind. I shouldn't even ask."

"Give me thirty eight minutes."

"Do you really have to leave right now?" John asked, more desperation in his voice than he had intended.

Sherlock cocked his head.

"You want me to stay?"

"I mean..." John was flustered, "If you want to... I guess... but you don't have to."

Sherlock sat back down on the bed.

"I'll stay."

John cleared his throat.

"I mean, you have some criminals to apprehend, right? Go after them. I'll be fine."

"But you would like me to stay."

John nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well..."

"I'll text Lestrade and give him the names of the two men," Sherlock said as he stood and strode over to the bureau. "I'll handle the rest tomorrow."

The detective opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of pyjama pants.

"Sherlock, you don'-"

"Hush, John," Sherlock said as he slammed the drawer shut and tossed his friend the pants. "Now put these on while I tidy up."

Despite his own hesitation, John did as he was told and climbed under the covers. He watched with some amusement as Sherlock whipped around the room like a Tasmanian Devil, putting things back in their proper place until the room was back to normal once again.

"Thanks," John smiled. "You really didn't have to do that, though."

"You're right. But I chose to do it, and now it's done." Sherlock put his hands on his hips. "Would you like another duvet?"

John nodded.

"That would be great, actually."

In the blink of an eye, the detective had whipped out a cream-coloured duvet and draped it over the doctor with a graceful flick of the wrists.

"Better?"

"Much."

Sherlock nodded and walked over to the light switch, flicking it downwards and thus eliminating the oppressive brightness emanating from the ceiling.

"Perfect. I'll be sitting right here if you need me," Sherlock said as he sat himself down in the wicker chair in the corner of the room.

"You really don't need to do that..."

"Again: I am choosing to. Now sleep."

John sighed and nestled into the warmth of his duvets as he closed his eyes, unconsciousness almost immediately taking over him. He hadn't realised how tired he actually was.

The last thing he heard before drifting off was the sound of Sherlock sending out a text. It was no doubt addressed to Lestrade.

* * *

**I don't believe anyone in particular actually suggested this prompt. If someone did and I'm forgetting their name, please let me know and I will give them proper credit.**

**I always love reviews!**


	22. Neglect

**Thanks to Rose0 for the prompt. :)**

* * *

"Are you awake?" Sherlock asked as he flipped on the light switch in John's room.

John hissed at the sudden onslaught of white light emitting from the ceiling and pulled the covers over his head, irrationally hoping that doing so would ward off his flatmate. Much to his dismay, the action only encouraged the detective to shake him.

"Up, John. Now," the man insisted, taking on a child-like tone.

John groaned and yanked off his own covers as he sat up.

"Sherlock, you had better have a bloody good reason for getting me up at- what is it?" He squinted at his alarm clock. "-two forty five in the morning." He sighed.

He had only been asleep for roughly an hour.

"The case, John, the case!" Sherlock said excitedly.

"You've solved it, then?" John yawned.

"Yes!"

"Good. 'Night."

John flopped back onto his pillow and screwed his eyes shut. As soon as he had gone down, Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up again, making it so that they were face-to-face.

"We need to examine the body once more," Sherlock said, his eyes fierce.

John glared at him.

"'We'?"

"Yes, of course 'we'. I need you with me."

"Well *I* need sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You'll be fine. Get dressed. We need to leave."

John rubbed his eyes.

"Sherlock-"

"Now, John."

With a sigh, the doctor swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up clumsily.

"At least grant me some privacy," he said, sounding a bit resigned.

Sherlock nodded and walked out the door.

"Ten minutes. No more," he said over his shoulder.

"Not even breakfast?" John called.

The lack of a response was telling enough.

John shuffled over to the closet and pulled out his cream-coloured jumper and jeans.

He was absolutely _exhausted_. Exhausted and, quite literally, starving. The most he had had all week was a bit of toast; and he had hardly gotten to finish what little there had been.

He could partially blame the state he was in on work. After all, Sarah was having him work longer hours in the mornings at the clinic in order to make up for his shoddy attendance.

And probably the inevitable failure of their relationship.

Then there was the case to place a larger amount of blame on. It had been a particularly puzzling one, surprisingly, even, for Sherlock. And whenever there was a puzzle to solve, John always fell victim to Sherlock's stamina. The man's engine never seemed to run out of fuel. Honestly, John could hardly understand how Sherlock could function without any food or sleep. It just wasn't normal.

But then again, Sherlock wasn't exactly the epitome of normality.

John buttoned his pants and straightened out his jumper, quickly checking the mirror to ensure that he looked decently presentable. He couldn't help but grimace at his own hollow appearance.

"John!" he heard Sherlock shout up the stairs, the voice rattling about in his head.

John took a deep breath and grabbed his shoes, running out the door and down the stairs.

"Can you not shout like that?" John scolded his friend. "We aren't the only ones who live in this building, you know."

"Get your shoes on," Sherlock said, completely ignoring the doctor's pleas.

John sighed and sat in his chair, tugging on one of his shoes.

"I've already phoned Molly, and she's expecting us at Bart's in fifteen minutes."

"Jesus, Sherlock, you woke Molly?"

"Of course. We can't examine the body without her there."

As John bent over to tie his other shoe, he hissed in pain when a sharp pain stabbed mercilessly behind his eyes. He immediately sat up again and began massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Do hurry."

The stabbing pain turned into a dull throb and John took a deep breath and sat up.

"Can I at least fix us some toast?" John called after Sherlock as his stomach audibly (and painfully) growled.

But the detective had already made his way down the stairs.

Grumbling under his breath, John ran after him, shrugging on his coat as he did so.

* * *

"Molly?" Sherlock called as he strode into the morgue. "Are you here yet?"

"Sherlock, would you quiet down?" John whispered. "The lights are off. She's obviously not here yet."

He heard his flatmate mumble something scathing, yet unintelligible.

"Sherlock?" a small voice said from behind the two of them.

The light was turned on, causing John to bite back a moan of pain. It felt as if someone were driving needles through the back of his head.

"Late, Molly," Sherlock said disapprovingly.

Molly yawned.

"What do you mean? You said 3:10."

"Early is on time. On time is late. I can't afford late right now, Molly. Do try to be more diligent."

The young pathologist sighed.

"Sorry."

She walked over to one of the drawers and pulled it out, revealing the body of twenty-four year old Grant Mulaney; apparently bludgeoned to death only a few days prior. Sherlock had determined the weapon to be one of Mulaney's many football trophies.

"Why do you need to see the body again?"

When the detective ignored her, she looked over at John for a response; all she got was a simple shrug.

Taking a cotton swab from a box on the table, Sherlock took a sweep beneath the dead man's fingernails.

"What re you doing?" Molly asked him.

"Precautionary research. Bring a microscope down here."

Molly sighed and walked out of the room to the laboratory.

"Y'know, there's really no need for you to be such an arsehole," John told the detective. "She doesn't deserve to be-"

His stomach clenched and he gasped in pain.

"John?" Sherlock asked him.

The pain, though intense, lasted a mere five seconds and then quickly subsided.

"Just a cramp," John reassured him. "What was I saying before?"

Just then, Molly came back in with a microscope in tow.

"Here," she said as she set it down on the examination table. "I brought some slides, too." She set those down beside it.

Sherlock gave her a nod and pulled up a stool in front of the table. He took the cotton swab in his hand and wiped whatever substance was coating its surface on a slide. Having gone through this procedure hundreds of times, it wasn't long before the slide was prepped and he was peering through the eyepiece of the microscope.

"Thanks, by the way," John whispered to Molly.

She beamed.

"I was right! I knew it!" Sherlock exclaimed, startling the other two. "I thought that substance looked familiar; I just couldn't place it."

"What is it?" Molly asked, yawning again.

"Jammie Dodger," Sherlock said.

John subconsciously licked his lips.

"A what?" Molly cocked her head.

Sherlock grinned.

"Jammie Dodgers and tea. An easy way to administer poison."

John's stomach growled, and his headache intensified.

"Poison?" Molly gasped.

John gripped the bridge of his nose and blinked.

"I thought he was bludgeoned to death?" he asked as he placed his hand by his side again.

Sherlock pushed the drawer shut.

"It was the poison, not the blow, that killed him, John. Of course, I'm ashamed I missed that detail, but then again, you're the doctor. I'm surprised you hadn't noticed the man's true cause of death."

John narrowed his eyes.

"Everyone has bad days."

Sherlock put his hands behind his back.

"Whatever restores your dignity, John."

The doctor had a comeback ready, but was stopped when the pain in his head began to stab his skull once more, the original needles feeling like knives. He pressed his fingers against his temples, desperately massaging them.

"John?" Sherlock asked. "What is it?"

John took a deep breath.

"It's fine," he said. "M'fine."

Damn those hunger headaches.

Again, the stabbing pain turned into a throb and John relaxed.

"I'm fine."

Molly, obviously sceptical, furrowed her brow as she stared intently at him, while Sherlock simply returned to his original train of thought.

"Right... well, the only one of the suspects at hand who has access to poisons would be the one who-"

There was a high-pitched ringing in John's ears and the room started to blur.

"...John?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"John!"

He blinked a few times.

"Hm?"

He looked over to find Molly staring disapprovingly at him.

"John, are you sure you're alright?" she asked. "You don't look well."

Sherlock stood by the body, his lips pressed tightly together as he seemed to also wait for a response. John couldn't tell if he was concerned or annoyed.

Most likely the latter.

"I said I'm fine, Molly," John insisted.

He knew he sounded tired. Weak.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over him.

"I just... air. Fresh air." The words were barely mumbled.

Before either the pathologist or Sherlock could say anything, he rushed out of the room, crossing his fingers that he wouldn't collapse on his way outside.

Molly bit her lip and turned around to face Sherlock.

"Maybe you should go check on him," she said. "I think he might be sick."

"If he is, he's capable of escorting himself home," the detective said, putting up his usual cold front.

"I'm sure the case can-"

"It really can't."

Molly placed her hands in her pockets.

"Well... I'll go down and make sure he gets home safely."

"Fine," Sherlock waved her off.

With a sigh, the young pathologist walked out the door and made her way down the stairs.

She opened the door outside, rubbing her arms together as the cold hit her.

"John?" she called. "You alright?"

She shivered.

"Joh-"

She stopped when she saw the doctor leaning against the wall of St. Bart's, taking deep breaths.

"I'm fine, Molly," he muttered.

His voice sounded shakier than what seemed normal.

"Only people who _aren't_ fine say that they're fine. What's wrong?" Molly stepped towards the doctor.

"I'm just a bit ill, s'all," John said through a deep breath.

His knees suddenly buckled and he collapsed on the ground with a grunt.

"John-?!" Molly exclaimed.

She dashed over to the fallen man and went to help him up.

"S'fine," John said, waving her off. "Please just- oh..." He grabbed his stomach when another charley horse hit him.

Molly knelt next to him and pulled out John's torch from his pocket, flipping it on and shining it on his face. The doctor swore as the light exacerbated his preexisting headache.

"John, you're really pale," Molly said.

And it was true; he really was. Pale and gaunt, obviously lacking at least a week or two of necessary sleep. She didn't need Sherlock to tell her that.

"We should get you inside to see a doctor..."

John frowned.

"And what exactly am I?"

"There's really no need to boast your credentials, John," a deep voice said from the shadows, making Molly jump.

"I thought the case was more important," Molly said with more than a hint of disapproval.

Sherlock walked forward and knelt down next to her.

"You were gone for more than five minutes. I assumed that meant John was being as stubborn as he usually is." He looked at John with penetrating eyes. "It looks like I assumed correctly."

"Look who's talking," John spat.

Sherlock nudged Molly to the side and took the light from her, once again shining it in John's eyes.

"Could you two stop with that?" John growled.

Sherlock flicked off the light and shoved it back into his own pocket. He then wrapped John's arm around his shoulders.

"Up we go, now," he grunted as he lifted John to his feet, Molly following suit as she pushed herself up and brushed off her pants.

"Thanks," John said. "But I'm okay now."

He managed to wriggle himself out of Sherlock's grip, but as soon as his feet hit the ground again, he immediately started falling. Luckily, Sherlock and Molly seemed matched in reflexes and caught him before he could fall too far.

"Are you finished?" Sherlock asked him as he held onto his arm.

John rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, we should really get him inside to see a doctor," Molly remarked, adjusting her grip on John's other arm.

"Not necessary," Sherlock and John seemed to say in unison. They looked at each other with some amusement.

Sherlock looked back at Molly.

"As much as it pains me to say so, he needs to get home and sleep. He's rather useless like this."

John was practically seething.

"Fuck. Off."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow

"And irritable."

Molly nodded.

"Yeah. He could also use a good meal."

"Not a dog," John said.

"I'll escort him to the flat. I need you to stay here, Molly. I'm not done with the body yet."

Molly nodded.

"Sure. Take your time. Make sure John's alright."

"I'm FINE."

"Do shut up, John," the detective told his companion as he readjusted him so that he was supporting him again. "You're severely sleep deprived and borderline malnourished, an inconvenience that not only affects you, but me as well."

John wanted to respond, but his eyelids were already drooping.

"Idiot," Sherlock mumbled.

And with a dramatic swirl of his coat, he half-dragged John down the street in search of a willing cabbie, leaving Molly on her own.

* * *

John opened his eyes to find that his room was just as dark as it was when he had gone to sleep. Strangely enough, he felt well-rested. Groggy, of course, but rested. With a great yawn, he stretched and sat up in bed.

Lazily, he got to his feet and went to exit the room when he stopped.

He looked around.

Unless he had drunkenly purchased a periodic table to go on his wall one night and made some serious renovations, this was _not_ his bedroom.

He slowly shuffled out of the room and into the hallway leading to the kitchen. He sniffed the air, surprised to find that it smelled... nice. Not like pickled eyes or burning flesh, but like a normal, homey flat. In fact, if he wasn't so accustomed to his flat-mate's usual ways, he could have sworn it smelled like the oven was in use. For cooking.

"Sherlock?" he called out.

His stomach growled loudly. He'd completely forgotten his hunger due to sleep deprivation.

"Awake and hungry, are we?" Sherlock remarked.

John couldn't spot him immediately, but after letting his eyes wander briefly, he saw the detective in the sitting room, seated in his chair with his laptop rested on his knees.

"Yeah... how long have I been asleep? It's still dark out."

"That's because the sun is setting," the detective said, his tone resembling that of a parent talking to their child.

Being a prat as usual.

"Wait, what? Setting? How in the name of-?"

John looked at the clock on the microwave.

"5:30? I've been asleep all day?"

"Yep," Sherlock said, popping the 'p'. "Dinner is in the oven. Mrs. Hudson will return shortly to take it out and serve it."

John stared, completely dumbstruck. Sleep? Dinner?

"What about the case?"

Sherlock was typing something out on his computer.

"While you were asleep I brought things to a close."

John scratched the back of his neck, still unsure of how to react to the situation.

"What was it, again? Poison in Mulaney's pastry?"

"Jammie Dodger. And his tea."

"And how in the hell did you miss that the first time?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Even I am prone to error, I suppose."

"Sherlock, dear, has the oven- oh, John! You're awake!"

Mrs. Hudson strode over to the doctor and enveloped him in a tight embrace.

John grunted as the landlady crushed him with her surprising amount of strength.

"Good to see you too, Mrs. H," he wheezed.

Looking over the older woman's shoulder, he could see Sherlock grinning at him. Slyly, John managed to flip him off before Mrs. Hudson pulled away.

"Dinner's just about ready, dear," she said with a smile. "I've made a nice chicken, a homemade loaf of bread, salad, and a large red velvet cake for dessert."

John's stomach growled again.

"Poor thing. We'll fill you up," the landlady clucked.

"Like a turkey on Christmas," Sherlock said as he closed his laptop.

"Shut up," John said, teasingly.

Before long, Mrs. Hudson had cleared off the kitchen table, laid down a spare table cloth and set the table, and laid out dinner, finishing off the chicken with a lovely garnish.

She and John sat at the table and immediately dug in. John, without thinking twice, scarfed down his first helping of food.

"My goodness, John, when was the last time you ate?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Wednesday," Sherlock said from the sitting room, now flipping through the newspaper. "Toast."

John paused his eating, giving Sherlock a disbelieving glare.

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock peered over the edge of the paper, knitting his brow.

"I'm a master of observation."

"Deduction," John corrected.

"To deduce, one must observe."

Mrs. Hudson turned around in her chair to look at the detective.

"If you knew, why on earth did you prevent John from taking proper care of himself?"

Sherlock flipped through the newspaper.

"I do tend to forget the needs of an average human being. I'm still not quite used to living with one."

John put down his glass of water.

"I've lived here for three years."

"And not once have you complained to me about your limited stamina."

"Are you saying this is my fault?"

"Are you saying it's mine?"

"Boys, please!" Mrs. Hudson intervened.

John grumbled and took another sip of water.

"Sorry."

Sherlock scoffed and flipped through another page of the paper.

"What?" John sighed.

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "I just never noticed how irate you are when you're tired."

"I swear to Christ..."

"John, dear, eat your supper. Pay him no mind," the landlady told him. "There's no need for fighting."

John bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something he would regret and he continued eating. He just had to remember that whatever Sherlock said was just Sherlock being Sherlock and not to take it too personally.

"More bread, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she offered another buttered slice.

John smiled and graciously took the piece.

"Thanks."

He took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully for a minute before he swallowed.

"Who put me in Sherlock's room?" he asked after a moment of silence.

Mrs. Hudson stopped cutting through her chicken and looked back at Sherlock who had frozen in his spot.

John furrowed his brow.

"Really?"

The detective licked his lips and set down the paper.

"You... you fell asleep. In the cab. And you looked content. I didn't find it sensible to carry you all the way up to your room, so I thought it better to deposit you in my bed."

John turned red.

"Well... thanks. You know, for not leaving me on the couch."

"I know how easily that couch makes you sore. Personally, I don't understand it, but I can't deny what's fact."

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as she continued to eat.

"Do you want to join us at the table?" John asked Sherlock. "I mean, I know you don't eat a lot, but..."

"Perhaps I can allow myself to indulge."

The detective took a seat close to John and smoothed out his slacks.

John handed him the salad bowl.

"Have at it."

Sherlock took the bowl from him and gave him a playful look.

"Do try not to fall asleep on your plate."

John glared at him as he took another bite of bread. But honestly, even with the sixteen-plus hours of sleep, he was still tired.

"I'll try not to."

Sherlock took a bite of salad.

"Good."

"For goodness sake, were you two raised like farm animals?" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "Don't talk with your mouths full."

* * *

**I had to give John a break from the merciless amount of bodily harm. A character can only take so much. ;)**


	23. Greed and Insanity

**Thanks to zxully for the prompt! :)**

* * *

"Sherlock..." a voice whispered.

Sherlock grimaced, determined to keep his eyes shut to try to block out the pain from his throbbing head.

"Sherlock, wake up."

Was that John?

With gritted teeth, the detective braced himself for the inevitable attack by an oppressive source of light. But when he opened his eyes, he found himself... well, unchanged, for the most part.

"Thank Christ. Are you alright?"

Sherlock felt a soft hand grip his shoulder.

"John...?" he asked, his voice a mere hoarse whisper.

His vision cleared, and he found himself staring up at the dark shadow that was his flatmate's face.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, keeping his own voice at a low whisper.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbows. "Where are we?"

John sighed.

"I was hoping you could tell me that."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked around the room. It was dark and cold, and he felt a lot more sluggish than usual. Perhaps that was due to the bruise on his temple that had knocked him unconscious earlier. But that seemed unlikely. His muscles felt like jelly.

"They injected us with something," John said. "A paralytic. I checked; there is a puncture wound on both our necks."

Sherlock felt his neck, his fingers finding their way to the wound.

"Judging from the size, I'd say the needle they used was rather large."

John nodded.

"Yeah, but that doesn't really help us now. Are you okay to stand?"

Sherlock tried getting onto his feet, but immediately fell back onto his elbows.

"Unfortunately, no." He frowned. "You said 'they'. You saw our captors?"

John shrugged.

"They knocked you out first. I got a glimpse at two of them before they got me too. I'm not sure if there are any more."

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Did you notice anything else?"

"Not really, no. They were pretty quick."

The detective sighed.

"Damn."

"Sherlock, I don't know what the hell you've gotten us into, but I know it can't be good."

"How do you know this is my fault?"

"Because mysterious men don't kidnap and drug us just for kicks." He paused. "Well, aside from your brother."

Sherlock went to respond, but was stopped by the sound of footsteps approaching the room.

Judging by the sound of the way they brushed against the floor, the shoes were made of leather. Recently repaired. That most likely meant whoever donned them earned good pay. The sound of suit pant legs brushing up against one another was also a strong indication of wealth.

The door opened wide, immediately exposing John and Sherlock the bright light in the hallway. Sherlock shut his eyes, shielding them with the crook of his elbow.

"Let's go, boys," a young man in a suit, sunglasses, and posh leather shoes commanded.

John, after recovering from his headache, easily brought up the courage to snicker.

"You know, it's said that only dickheads wear sunglasses indoors."

The man frowned. Turning to another man opposite him, he jerked his head in John's direction. The other man came through the door and grabbed John by the collar of his jumper, lifted him onto his feet, and tightened his bad arm behind him.

"Hey, hey!" John cried out.

Sherlock obediently let the leader of the two lift him up, as his muscles were still lax. He wasn't too nervous. The GPS on his phone was turned on. And Mycroft always kept tabs on his phone. He and John would be rescued soon.

"I assume you're taking us to your leader?" he asked the man.

John smirked.

"Shut up," the man holding him growled.

None too gently, Sherlock and John were pushed through the brightly lit hallway. It appeared that they were located in a bunker of some sort. The walls were painted in an off-white colour, the floors were made of cement, and the doors were each made of metal.

Some expense was obviously spared.

"Sherlock, I will ask you again; what the hell is going on?" John whispered.

"Quiet!" the man holding John said as he tightened his grip.

"Ow! Fuck off!" John exclaimed through gritted teeth.

Sherlock continued to stare straight ahead as the two guards opened the door to a room at the end of a corridor. The inside was just as bland as the hallway, only it was decorated with a small, metal chair in the centre. To the side was a tray with a sheet draped over it. A lone light shined over the chair. Barely illuminated by the light was a woman in a black and white dress, the black fashioned in a way that it slimmed her hourglass figure.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," she said, her lilt reverberating off the walls of the room.

Sherlock scoffed.

"Those words do get so tiresome to hear. Please do try practicing some originality."

The woman (who, Sherlock had to admit, was rather stunning) walked over to the detective in her black pumps, the heels loudly clacking on the floor.

"I had heard you were dangerously sarcastic," she said with a malicious smile. "Sit him down, Rosco."

The man holding Sherlock roughly pushed him over to another hidden chair seated in the corner of the room and pushed him into it.

"What are you doing?!" John yelled at the woman.

Her smile hardened.

"You know the drill, Jackson."

The man holding John nodded and shoved John into the chair beneath the light.

"Who are you?" John asked, grunting as he felt Jackson binding his wrists with a zip-tie.

The woman chuckled.

"I thought your boyfriend would have told you by now."

"He's not my- oh forget it," John sighed.

He looked over at Sherlock.

"I believe her that you know something," he said. "Now, what is it?"

The woman looked over at the detective with crossed arms.

"Answer him, Darling. I don't have all day."

Sherlock reddened.

"It's only a case, John. One I've been working without you."

"So? You do that a lot."

"Your boyfriend has been fooling around with things he shouldn't. Things including my love life. And my money," the woman said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's not my fault you're a materialistic whore."

The woman laughed.

"My, my. Did he get his mouth from you?" she said, looking back over at John. "Anyway, so sorry for being rude, my dear. My name is Annika. Pleased to finally meet you."

"Sure."

Annika walked back over to Sherlock.

"You have been a naughty, naughty boy, Mr. Holmes."

"What? For exploiting your affairs? And the murder of your husband?"

Annika laughed.

"Oh please. I don't care about that. I have enough ties within the legal system to rule my conviction null and void." She became serious. "My real concerns lie within my financial security. You ran off with my money."

"Seriously?" John said.

"Correction: I returned it to its rightful owner," Sherlock answered Annika.

"That's stealing, Sexy."

"You had someone alter the will. An expert at forgery. You stole someone's inheritance."

"Exactly. I stole it fair and square. You stole it back with the original copy of the will. Which you burned."

She lowered her eyelids and stroked Sherlock's cheek with her acrylic nail on her right index finger. Sherlock winced.

"Now, you're going to tell me exactly how you split my funds, and to whom they were given," she said.

"Am I supposed to believe you're a threat to me?"

She grinned.

"Sorry to interrupt... whatever sexual thing this is... but why the hell is this money such a big deal to you? I mean, you're already rich."

Annika looked over at John.

"I thrived off of my husband's preexisting funds. They were all that were keeping me afloat. After he found out about my affairs, he immediately took me out of his will. I couldn't have that."

"So you decided the best step to take was to have a professional redo his will and then murder him? After you screwed up?"

Annika frowned.

"I've made a lot of poor decisions."

"Yeah. This is one of them."

The woman sighed and turned her attention back to Sherlock.

"Anyway, Dear, where were we?"

"You were telling me how threatening you apparently are?"

"'Apparently'?"

"Honestly. If you've heard about my notorious sarcasm, you've surely heard about my stubborn nature. I'm not threatened by torture."

Annika chuckled.

"I know. I'm not an idiot."

"Beg to differ," John mumbled.

Annika growled.

"I do my research, Mr. Holmes. I've got lots of external sources."

"Congratulations," Sherlock said.

"I do adore that sarcasm," Annika smirked. "As I was saying: I know your weaknesses."

"Do you?"

"Rosco!" Annika called as she clapped her hands.

Rosco pulled back the sheet covering the tray, revealing a variety of... were those knives?

"Rosco is a passionate collector, as you can probably tell," Annika said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"They're very sharp. What's your point?"

Jackson grabbed a bat from the far end of the room.

"And a blunt object. A beating followed by lacerating? Boring."

"No so much when the victim is your boyfriend."

Sherlock went silent.

"Excuse me?" John piped up.

Annika grinned.

"Surprise." She turned around to face her guards. "Rosco, darling, why don't you let Jackson have some fun for a while? I'll tell you when it's your turn."

Rosco smirked and went outside the room, shutting the door behind him, shrouding the room in even more darkness.

Sherlock struggled with the zip tie.

"Leave him out of this."

"Jackson," Annika commanded, "Have at it."

The man took a batting stance and swung the bat right into John's stomach. The doctor grunted as the wind was knocked out of him.

Again, the bat was swung, this time landing a hard hit on John's ribcage. A crack sounded through the room, along with a breathless cry from John. Sherlock pulled against the tie binding his wrists.

A few more times; hitting the knees, twice more in the stomach, and again in the ribs. John was left gasping.

"Thanks... a lot..." he said in between breaths.

Sherlock tightened his lips.

"M'fine..." John insisted.

The bat came cracking down on his left shoulder.

"Bloody hell!" John cried out.

"John!"

"Alright, Jackson, give the poor dear a minute to catch his breath," Annika said.

Jackson straightened up and brushed off his suit jacket.

"Care to give me a few names?" the woman looked over to Sherlock.

"Don't, Sherlock. I'll be fine," John said, still gasping.

There was no doubt in his head that things were broken.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Annika.

"Go. To. Hell."

"It's not difficult information to pass on to me," she said.

"If I give you names, people will die."

Annika shrugged.

"Maybe, maybe not. You don't know that."

Sherlock looked desperately at John who was shaking his head.

"It seems that John and I have both agreed that you're hardly worth our breath," he said.

Annika sighed.

"Very well. Jackson!"

Sherlock could hardly restrain himself as the bat hit John over and over again. He kept track; stomach, left shoulder (_oh Christ!_), legs (_cracking; please_ _stop!_) ribs, stomach, shoulder...

Annika held out her hand to stop Jackson.

"Alright, Sexy. Your boyfriend isn't immortal. So I suggest you tell me what I want to hear."

Sherlock's eyes wildly darted over to John. He was looking pale and in a lot of pain, obviously struggling to take in deep breaths. Whoever this Jackson fellow was, he was certainly quite strong.

"Stop it. Let him go, please," Sherlock said.

"'Please'?" Annika said, looking amused. "That's so cute. Did you hear that, Dear? He's begging for you!"

John slowly lifted up his head to look at Annika.

"You're a bitch."

She walked over to John and subsequently slapped him, her nails leaving deep scratches along his cheek.

"Watch your tongue, Sailor."

Sherlock stomped his foot on the ground.

"Touch him again and I will assure that you and your entire web of henchmen are brought down with the heavy iron fist of my brother!" Sherlock yelled.

Annika smiled.

"Take a moment to assess your situation," she said. "I don't believe you're in any place to be making threats." She strutted back over to him. "Now, I'm only going to tell you once more before I start getting impatient: give me names."

Sherlock shook with anger, but didn't respond. He couldn't let himself break so easily. Not with Mycroft so close. Or at least he assumed he was close.

"No."

Annika's smile turned into a set resting face, one that looked displeased and genuinely menacing.

"Jackson, go fetch Rosco. It seems we need to raise the stakes."

Jackson nodded and went out the door, said a few hushed words, and was soon replaced by Rosco who shut the door as he walked in.

"Rosco likes to play with his knives, Mr. Holmes. He considers it an art."

Rosco picked up one of the knives from the tray next to John and gently drew the blade across his thumb.

"Of course, I dabble in it myself, but I hate to get my hands dirty. Especially in such dignified company."

She positioned herself in front of John and grabbed a pair of scissors next to the knives. With careful hands, she cut through the fabric of his jumper as if it were made of butter, starting from the bottom up. Sherlock could see the irritation in John's face at the prospect of having yet another jumper ruined on one of their cases. He owed John at least ten new ones. Soon, the jumper was peeled away, revealing John's bare flesh. With only bare skin, Sherlock could see how rapidly John's heart was beating. God he hated this. He hated that he had gotten John involved in this.

"I won't tell you how to do your job, Dear. Just don't kill him."

Rosco smiled at her as she kissed him on the cheek.

He sliced the knife through John's other undamaged cheek. Sherlock but his lip as John hissed in pain. Blood rolled down the doctor's face.

"Names, Mr. Holmes! I want names!" Annika said.

Sherlock remained as stoic as he possibly could.

"Absolutely not."

Rosco moved down to John's chest and started carving his stomach, the knife leaving heavy trails of blood. John was trying his best to not cry out. A soldier 'till the very end.

"Names!"

"No!"

That word hurt Sherlock more and more each time he said it, for it meant more pain for John.

The knife began to cut deeper. This time, John cried out, quickly biting his tongue to try to keep himself quiet.

"Mr. Holmes, this is getting excessively ridiculous! Just give me the information!"

Sherlock tightened his lips as the knife began cutting deeply into John's chest. He needed to say something. Anything that would make this all stop.

Rosco began to slice a long line across John's chest-

"Alright!" Sherlock screamed. "Alright."

Annika stopped Rosco.

"Go on."

Sherlock looked at John, the poor man looking horribly bruised and bloodied. That knife had really cut deep. And it looked like John was losing a considerable amount of blood.

"On the will, there were eight people..." Sherlock said.

"Rosco! Write this down!" Annika commanded the man behind her.

Obediently, he took out a pen and notepad from his pocket, not caring that he was staining the lining with blood.

John's blood.

"Eight people?" Annika said.

"Eight people, only two of them biologically related to your husband."

"Nieces? Nephews? I'm not familiar with Andrew's family. Be specific."

"One niece, one nephew," Sherlock said.

John was lazily shaking his head.

"Dn't..." he muttered.

Annika nodded.

"And the other six on the will?"

"Five were friends, one was an old employee."

"What's the name of the employee?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. He looked over at John who was still shaking his head.

"The name, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat.

Annika gestured to Rosco who threw down the notepad, picked up the knife, and plunged it into John's thigh. John howled in pain.

"Jessica!" Sherlock yelled. "Her name is Jessica!"

Annika pointed at Rosco. He wrote down the name.

"Of course it was her. The old dolt was always one of Andrew's favourites." After she had Rosco finish writing the name down, she looked to Sherlock again. "Which friends?"

John was nearly unconscious.

"I've told you enough for now."

"Hardly," Annika said. "Tell me more."

Sherlock looked at her with an icy stare. As Rosco picked up another knife, there came the sound of multiple voices and footsteps.

"What the hell-?" Annika exclaimed.

"That would be my brother," Sherlock said. "Now, I suggest that you put you hands up and surrender."

She glared at the detective as the door came crashing down. A group of armed men swarmed into the room, guns pointed at the woman and Rosco. Jackson stood at the front, his arms up behind his head. From behind the swarm came Mycroft. The elder Holmes looked alarmed at the sight of John in the chair, and his eyes made their way over to Sherlock.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled. "Stop gaping and undo these bonds!"

His brother furrowed his brow.

"You're most certainly welcome, brother dear."

He quickly got behind Sherlock and cut him free of the zip tie. Like a bolt of lighting, Sherlock darted over to John, slicing through the tie with the dropped knife. John began to fall forward, but Sherlock caught him on his uninjured shoulder, allowing him to come around to the front and help him to the ground. John yelped, the knife still lodged in his thigh.

"Let me take it out," Sherlock said as he held John in his arms.

John adamantly shook his head.

"No good. He hit the artery. Leave it."

John panted through bouts of pain.

"It's alright, John. It's alright."

"Sherlock..."

"Shh..."

Meanwhile, Mycroft circled Annika, his umbrella clacking on the floor in time with his footsteps.

"Dr. Wolf, if you wouldn't mind helping my brother and his friend to the helicopter," he called through the crowd of men.

A medic in a short, white coat pushed through and began to help Sherlock escort John from the room. Sherlock said some harsh words and lifted John up in his arms. Dr. Wolf sighed and led the detective out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Mycroft turned his attention back to Annika.

"Annika Alkaev," he said, his snobbish tone sounding incredibly threatening.

"And you are?"

Mycroft looked her in the eye.

"The British Government."

* * *

Sherlock paced beside John's bed, incessantly tapping his finger on the back of hand as he held his arms behind his back.

"Brother dear, would you cease that ridiculous pacing? Doctor Watson will be perfectly fine," Mycroft said from the door.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother.

"_You_," he hissed.

"Yes, me. Would you care to have a seat?"

"You were nearly too late! John could have been killed!"

Mycroft frowned.

"How on earth is that my fault? If I recall, Sherlock, you're the one who decided that taking this case on your own would be wise. I told you not to get involved."

"You know I never listen to you!"

"That much is evident."

Sherlock stood by John's side and placed a hand on the rail.

"He had relatively no clue as to what was going on. Yet he still was adamant that I not say a word."

"He is rather loyal," Mycroft said.

"Selfless."

"A danger to himself."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled.

"You have yet to thank me, brother."

"Why should I? You got there far too late."

"I'm not the one who got him kidnapped."

Sherlock tightened his lips and sat down next to John. Mycroft walked over to the opposite side of the bed.

"What have you done with Annika?"

"That's for me to know, Sherlock. Just trust that she's been properly taken care of."

Sherlock nodded.

"I do. You're always thorough."

"That's the first compliment you've handed me in years," Mycroft said, an air of amusement about him.

"Savour it," Sherlock said.

"Did you tell her anything?"

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Of course I did. John was suffering."

"How much?"

"Does that really matter?" Sherlock said, raising his voice.

Mycroft inspected the heart monitor.

"She has connections, Sherlock. You know that. And until I've rooted out her allies, the people you've revealed to her will be in danger."

"Then I'd protect everyone who was written into Mr. Finch's will."

"You told her _everything_?"

"No. I only gave her one name. But I dropped hints that she could easily pass on to her henchmen."

Mycroft sighed.

"Sherlock..."

"What was I supposed to do? Her crazy henchman was going to kill him!"

"...I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked taken aback.

"What?"

"I'm sorry you and John went through such an ordeal."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think you've ever apologised. For anything."

Mycroft smirked.

"Savour it."

Sherlock frowned.

"If you're attempting to have a tender moment, this is perhaps the worst time to have it."

"I'm disgusted by the thought," Mycroft said, rather insincerely.

He went to exit the room.

"By the way, I've arranged it so that you may stay with Doctor Watson as long as you wish."

"Good," Sherlock said as he adjusted John's blanket.

"Don't aggravate the staff. They're still authorised to throw you out."

"Fine."

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I'll be seeing you soon, brother?"

"I hope not."

The elder Holmes shook his head and stepped out of the room.

"Mycroft?"

He stopped.

"Yes?"

"...thank you."

Mycroft smiled to himself.

"Of course."

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Never speak of this to anyone."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

John woke to the sound of Sherlock harping at one of the nurses. His head was pounding and he felt uncomfortably numb. But as he remembered the recent events that had occurred, he figured it was for the best.

"...need to leave!" he heard the nurse insist.

"I've been given special permission!" he heard Sherlock say.

"I don't care what you say you have, Sir. I need proper authorisation," the nurse said, getting impatient.

"And I told you; Mycroft Holmes instructed the doctors. Ask one of them!"

"That's not enough."

"Is this entire hospital populated by imbeciles?!"

John straightened up in bed, still a bit drowsy from the morphine in his system, but still managed to clear his throat to scold his flatmate.

"Sherlock, leave her alone!"

Sherlock turned around, his mouth slightly agape.

"You're awake!" he exclaimed with the giddiness of a child.

John crossed his arms.

"Yeah; and I'm also in pain and quite grouchy."

Sherlock frowned.

"I only caught a part of that exchange, but I assume it has to do with your brother. Just give the woman his number and stop acting live a bloody five year-old."

"It's funny how the unconscious patient is now the one talking sense," said the nurse as she placed her hands on her hips.

John clumsily reached out for the table next to him and grabbed his phone, tossing it at the nurse.

"Look up 'Mycroft Holmes' in my contacts. He'll give you the authorisation you need."

The nurse pursed her lips and spun on her heel to walk out of the room.

"What a bitch," John muttered.

"So you agree?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but I'm still unbelievably pissed at you right now. First, you go off on your own on an extremely dangerous case without telling me that involves a poor equivalent to Irene Adler, stolen inheritances, and fucking insane bodyguards that could have killed you if they hadn't decided I was a better punching bag. Which brings me to my second point; who the hell do you think you are, getting me involved in your messes? I was having a perfectly fine week without anything going wrong. And then you had to piss off what's-her-name and get us both captured, which resulted in broken ribs, a fractured leg, a re-fucked up shoulder, and not to mention numerous lacerations! All on me! At this point, I'm pretty much the equivalent of a human pin-cushion! And then, perhaps the most annoying thing of all, you and that bitch nurse had to wake me up from a perfectly nice medically-induced sleep with your bickering about Mycroft. I don't even know what the hell is happening with that! But this wouldn't be a first, would it?!"

Sherlock stood there, his face having blanched as John had ranted.

"Are you finished?" he asked, hardly having the courage to speak up.

"I wish I had the breath and lack of pain to say no!" John yelled.

Sherlock looked down at his shoes, trying to focus on the way in which they reflected the light; anything to avoid looking at John's furious expression.

John sighed and took a deep breath.

"Jesus Christ... I don't even know what to say anymore. You're just such an idiot sometimes."

Sherlock stifled a chuckle.

"Mycroft could tell you a number of stories."

John snorted.

"I'm sure."

Sherlock shifted a bit before speaking again.

"John... words cannot express how truly sorry I am. I... I never intended for any of this to happen."

"Intentions aren't exactly in your department."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I suppose not."

John reached out and grabbed the plastic cup of ice from the table, greedily taking some chunks and crunching on them.

"I hate hospitals," he said as he swallowed the ice.

"That's a bit concerning to hear from a doctor."

"Not working in them, you git. Being a patient. All of the nurses either treat you like a toddler or like you're a demon from the fifth layer of hell. Neither scenarios are fun."

Sherlock looked back up at him.

"You'd know, wouldn't you?"

John laughed again.

"Thanks to you."

Sherlock went silent again.

"Alright, fine," the nurse from earlier said as she returned. "You win. You can stay."

She threw the cell on John's lap, hitting him right on his wound.

"Ah! Shit!" he swore.

"Be careful!" Sherlock yelled at her. "How you managed to get a position as a health care professional is beyond even my reasoning."

The nurse rolled her eyes.

"Whatever. I'm taking a smoke break."

"So much for her so-called 'professionalism'," Sherlock scoffed.

"She pretty much embodies the environment at my work," John said with a smirk.

Sherlock shook his head.

"How unfortunate."

"You're telling me."

They smiled at each other.

"You know, this changes nothing. I'm still really mad at you."

Sherlock held his hands behind his back.

"Of that I have no doubt. But you don't seem cross at the moment. So I'll be taking advantage of that fact."

John chuckled.

"So... what about Annika?"

Sherlock tensed at the name.

"Taken care of."

"And by that you mean...?"

"Mycroft's taken care of her."

John bit his lip.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Well."

"I doubt we'll be hearing from her again."

John nodded.

"Of course." He swallowed. "Did Mycroft stop by?"

Sherlock stayed silent.

"Well, did he?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted over to the bandages around John's chest.

"As shocking as your blood loss was, it reminded me that I've been meaning to perform a few tests involving your plasma."

John narrowed his eyes.

"I swear to God, this time I'm putting Nair in your shampoo."

Sherlock smirked.

"I'd love to see you try."


	24. A Murder Mystery

**So... this monster story happened. Like, I was writing it and was saying to myself: "Perfect. Another_ small_ oneshot to add to my collection." And then I put it up on Microsoft Word and was overwhelmed when I saw that it equalled about forty pages. I think it's safe to say that I'm going to split this one into parts. Because all at once can be a bit overwhelming for you guys who came here for short stories. So, yeah.**

**AAAAAAAAnyways, I hope you enjoy. It might not be the best thing I've ever written, but writing murder mysteries is hard. Scratch that: writing _in general _is hard. So I always love getting feedback. There's always going to be room for improvement. :)**

**Kudos to Zealister for the prompt. I hope I didn't gloss over anyone else who might have recommended this to me, but just know that if you did, I appreciate it! :)**

* * *

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said indignantly.

"Sherlock, it's for Mrs. Hudson. I don't want to go either, but she asked us."

"My answer remains the same."

John reached up and grabbed the taller man's shoulder, turning him around to face him.

"I need to get to my iodine sample," Sherlock said. "It's-"

"Listen to me," John said. "Mrs. Hudson practically waits on us hand-and-foot. All she's ever done for us is care for us as if we were her own children. Hell, she practically lets us live here for free."

"Not true..."

"Shut up. My point is, the least we can do is attend this party with her. She doesn't want to go alone," John said. "Now, either you go willingly, or I drag you there."

"John, the iodine-"

"I don't care. Are you going to go to the party like a mature adult should, or am I going to have to act as your mother yet again?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Fine. But I won't enjoy myself."

Suddenly, there was an overbearing stench of burning chemicals and fire in the air. Sherlock and John both wrinkled their noses and peered into the kitchen.

There on the table was a purple fire raging inside a ceramic crucible on a hot plate. Purple smoke was floating up to the ceiling.

"I tried to tell you," Sherlock said with a shrug.

John rolled his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I don't even have the energy right now to deal with this," he sighed. "The party's tomorrow. Don't forget."

Sherlock picked up the crucible with tongs.

"I really don't care."

"Fucking child," John muttered.

* * *

**~Saturday Afternoon, 15:45~**

"John? Sherlock? Are you boys ready?"

"Just a minute, Mrs. Hudson!" John called down the stairs.

He finished tying his tie as he walked up to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock?" he knocked. "Sherlock are you ready? Mrs. Hudson's waiting."

God, the kitchen still smelled dreadful.

"I refuse to leave the flat looking like this," Sherlock said through the door.

"Sherlock, don't be a baby. We have to go."

John heard a groan as Sherlock stepped up to the door. Slowly, the handle turned and the door swung back open, revealing the detective clad in a nice suit and a mask resembling the head of an otter.

John snorted.

"You look great."

Sherlock frowned.

"I look utterly ridiculous."

John smirked.

"Surely you mean _otterly_ ridiculous."

"Not funny."

"I'm bloody hilarious."

Sherlock tugged at the mask.

"Why don't you have to wear one?"

John grinned.

"I don't have one yet."

Sherlock sneered.

"Boys?" Mrs. Hudson called again.

"Come on," John said. "We'd better get going."

Reluctantly, Sherlock trudged behind John as they went downstairs.

"Ready, Mrs. H," John said.

The landlady giggled when she saw Sherlock.

"Oh you look adorable!"

Sherlock blushed and hid his hands behind his back.

Mrs. Hudson turned to John.

"Oh, John," she said, digging through her purse, "I have a mask for you."

John's smile disappeared.

"Oh, I was planning on getting one myself on the way there."

"Don't be silly. I had one for Sherlock, so of course I have one for you."

She pulled out a hedgehog mask.

"Here we are."

John sighed as he took the mask.

"Thanks."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Come now, John. Don't be _prickly._"

"Shut up, you," John said, elbowing Sherlock in the side.

He put the mask on and straightened his tie.

"Alright. Let's go."


	25. A Murder Mystery (Part 2)

**~Saturday Evening, 17:30~**

"Thank you!" Mrs. Hudson called as the cabbie drove off.

She turned back around to Sherlock and John.

"He was nice."

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"This is absolutely humiliating."

"Since when do you care?" John remarked.

"Boys, don't be bitter. At least try to have a good time," Mrs. Hudson urged.

"What is the point of this celebration, anyway?" Sherlock asked.

Mrs. Hudson placed a cat mask on her face.

"It's for my friend Genevieve's birthday, Dear," she said. "Her daughter organised the whole thing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I take it her mother fancies detective stories?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Oh yes. She adores them. In fact, that's why I brought you and John along. I thought she might like to meet you." She smiled. "You probably have some stories to tell, yes?"

John stopped her.

"Those probably aren't stories for the faint of heart."

The landlady's smile dissipated and she nodded.

"Oh. I see." She cleared her throat. "Shall we go inside?"

As soon as the three of them set foot on the doorstep to the grand manor, a maid had opened the front door.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle," she said, her French accent heavy.

She looked to Sherlock and John and smiled.

"Bonsoir, Messieurs," she said.

John acknowledged her with a nod.

"Suivez-moi, s'il vous plaît," she said.

They walked down a hallway into a large dining area where five other guests were congregated.

"Voilà," the maid curtsied.

She then exited the room.

"A French maid. How predictable," Sherlock muttered.

John slapped his arm.

"Don't be that way."

Mrs. Hudson shuffled over to the other side of the room to chat with some friends of hers. Both young and old.

"I don't see the point of these masks," Sherlock said to John as he scanned the room, noting the variety of animals the other guests were disguised as.

"The daughter probably thought it would be cute," John said with a shrug.

"On the contrary," a woman said as she slid up beside the two men.

Covered by her short blond hair was a mask resembling a wolf. The dress she wore was dark blue, paired with black flats and a silver locket.

"I assume you're the birthday girl's daughter?" Sherlock said sardonically.

"Cora Williams," the woman held out her hand.

She blushed.

"Oh dear. I forgot that we aren't supposed to reveal our names." She laughed. "It's silly, really. Just as silly as the masks."

She sighed.

"Anyway: Pleased to meet you."

Sherlock hesitantly took her hand and shook it.

"I'm sure."

She gave the detective a bemused smile.

"And you are...?"

John licked his teeth uncomfortably, embarrassed by his socially-awkward friend.

"Pardon him. He's a bit infantile. His name is... oh, what's a good alias?"

Cora laughed.

"I broke the rules. It's only fair that you do as well."

John chuckled.

"Don't mind if I do. This child standing next to me is Sherlock Holmes."

"_The_ Sherlock Holmes?" Cora exclaimed.

"Yes. That guy," John muttered.

"Then are you John Watson?"

John smiled and shook her hand.

"You're a fan of his blog, yeah?"

Cora shook her head.

"Actually, I'm more interested in your work, Doctor Watson. I'm a huge fan." She smiled.

John was astonished.

"Really? Huh. Pleased to meet you, Cora."

She was practically shaking from excitement.

"Pardon me," she said. "My mum's probably ready to come down, now. I ought to fetch her."

Like a giddy schoolgirl, she hurried down the hall.

John turned his head to Sherlock and grinned.

"Did you hear that?"

"Not used to receiving compliments, are you?" Sherlock said, snide.

John frowned.

"You know-"

"Hello!" a busty, rather doughy woman said as she approached them. She was wearing a bird mask.

"Hi," John said, forcing a smile.

"You two looked so lonely here in the corner, and I saw that you had arrived with Martha. I just had to talk to you."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"'Martha'?"

John brought the palm of his hand to his forehead.

"That's Mrs. Hudson's name, Sherlock."

The big woman in front of them stood there awkwardly as they had that exchange.

"Pardon me," she said. "We're going by aliases, aren't we? Anyway, my name is Ca- oh! Caught myself. Forgot about the names. My name is... oh bother."

She drew a card out from her purse and squinted.

"Madame Rose."

Sherlock grumbled beneath his breath.

"Not really sure who we are," John said with an apologetic smile. "We haven't got our cards yet."

Madame Rose laughed.

"I suppose we'll find out soon."

Four others came up to greet Sherlock and John, each reading off their cards.

First was Monsieur Bleu, Cora's brother, who wore a rabbit mask. He seemed to be a kind, younger man, yet he seemed… distracted. After a while, the flatmates became acquainted with Monsieur Vert, a hearty, elder war veteran. He wore a badger mask. Mademoiselle Rouge was the only other woman in the room; Cora's older, snobbish cousin. She wore a fox mask. Finally came Monsieur Orange, an educated, quiet man who revealed that he was a doctor. Of course, his occupation was made evident by the scars on his hands and the bend in his thumb. He was an old friend of the Williams family. He wore a penguin mask.

"What is this? Bloody Cluedo?" John whispered to Sherlock.

"Excusez-moi, Mesdames et Messieurs?" the maid said. "Puis-je avoir votre attention, s'il vous plaît?"

"Oh for God's sake. Would someone _please_ grab an English maid?" Mademoiselle Rouge sneered.

The maid narrowed her eyes.

"Désolée, Mademoiselle. My English is très mauvais; just like your French."

Rouge scoffed and crossed her arms.

"Votre Hôtre de ce soir; Madame Cygne!" the maid said, boldly returning to her first language.

She stepped to the side, revealing Cora alongside an older, yet healthy-looking, woman. She was (obviously) wearing a swan mask.

"Bonjour, my lovelies!" she said, her attempt at a French accent slipshod at best. "How are we this evening?"

"Happy Birthday, old girl!" Monsieur Vert exclaimed.

The woman chuckled.

"Merci," she said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her dreadful pronunciation.

"Now, it might be my birthday, but that doesn't mean that anything bad couldn't happen," Madame Cygne said with a giddy smile.

Cora audibly groaned behind her.

Sherlock was tempted to speak, but was stopped by John tugging at his sleeve.

"Say a word, and I swear to God I will throw your patches out the window," the doctor said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock bit his tongue.

"Let us commence the celebration!" Cygne said.

* * *

**~Saturday Evening, 20:15~**

Sherlock impatiently drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa he had perched himself on, watching as the hands of the grandfather clock in the corner tucked away.

John had been cornered by Monsieur Vert after he had mistakenly let on that he had served time in the war, and was currently having his ear practically talked off about injuries, bunk-mates, explosions, etcetera. He was desperately trying to distract himself by sipping away at the drink that had been poured for him.

Sherlock ignored the chatter that Madame Rose insisted on letting come out of her big mouth. She had decidedly plopped down next to him after the cake and presents had been brought into the room an hour prior.

The seconds went by painfully slowly, each tick becoming seemingly louder and louder in Sherlock's head.

"Excuse me," he heard John say quite close to him.

Madame Rose stopped mid-sentence and smiled apologetically.

"Oh. I see. Here you are," she said as she stood. "I understand that you and your husband would like some time together."

John blushed as she slinked away.

"Well then," he cleared his throat as he sat down. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock shook himself out of his trance.

"Bored," he said. "I despise parties."

"Never really fancied them either," John said, taking another sip of his drink. "But Mrs. Hudson is pretty happy over there."

He and Sherlock looked over to their landlady who was happily conversing with Cygne.

"Are we leaving soon?" Sherlock sighed.

John shook his head.

"We're probably stuck here for at least another few hours."

"Oh Hell," Sherlock muttered. "Why did you insist on dragging me here?"

John smirked.

"So I wouldn't have to suffer alone."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh a bit.

Suddenly, there was a loud _thump_ that came from the kitchen, making everyone in the room jump.

Well, excluding Sherlock.

"Oh dear!" Cygne said. "Whatever could that be?"

On cue, the maid burst into the room.

"Le maître d'hôtel; il est mort!" she cried.

The guests all exchanged confused glances.

Cora sighed.

"Oh no!" she exclaimed sarcastically. "The butler is dead!"

The guests all nodded in understanding.

"This is off to a smashing start," Sherlock mumbled.

John, in agreement, took a large swig of his beverage.

"Oh my!" Madame Cygne said. "How dreadful!"

With scattered sighs, the party moved into the kitchen. The first thing John and Sherlock saw was a poorly constructed crime scene.

The butler had a fake knife hilt glued to his chest, fake blood covering his "corpse" and the kitchen floor. He made it a point to have his tongue sticking out to achieve the poor illusion of death.

"Oh," Monsieur Bleu said, putting a hand over his mouth. "I think I might be ill. Excuse me."

He ran from the kitchen to the upstairs.

Sherlock and John glanced at each other with the same disbelieving expression on their face.

Cora came up beside them.

"You'd think that being a wealthy family we could afford better effects," she whispered.

John chuckled and sipped again at his drink.

"At least your mum's enjoying herself."

Madame Cygne looked to be investigating the scene.

"She looks a bit like you, dear," Mrs. Hudson suddenly said to Sherlock.

The detective frowned.

"I take that as an insult, Mrs. Hudson."

"Hush up," the landlady silenced him.

"Aha!" Cygne exclaimed. "A blue, lace handkerchief!"

"This is so predictable, John," Sherlock said. "Please let me-"

"No," the doctor shushed him. "When we get home, we'll find a nice murder for you to solve." He finished off his drink and set it on the kitchen counter.

Sherlock grumbled.

"But who here has a blue handkerchief?" Cygne asked, bringing a had to her chin, rubbing it thoughtfully.

"Any lady, I suppose," Monsieur Vert commented.

Cygne nodded.

"Indeed. Ladies: empty your pockets!"

Reluctantly, each woman in the room showed Madame Cygne the contents of their pockets. All of them had handkerchiefs on hand, each one matching their alias.

Obviously given to them beforehand.

"Alright," Cygne said. "That's a bit curious. You all are innocent, it seems. That leaves the men and my staff."

Sherlock was clenching his fists. He was surrounded by imbeciles.

John rested a hand on his flatmate's lower back, understanding his frustration, but wanting desperately to keep it at bay.

"Men: you know what to do," Cygne said.

The butler coughed.

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock said, practically shouting. "Where's the cook?"

John bit the inside of his cheek.

Madame Cygne and the other guests looked at him, shocked by his sudden outburst.

"Why?" Cygne asked.

"The cook. Given your vast wealth and obvious inability to even try to take care of your own affairs, I'm assuming you have a home chef."

Cygne nodded.

"Yes..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped forward.

"Look at the handkerchief," he said, gesturing at the item in question. "The lace has obviously been torn due to to friction over a long period of time. It constantly remains in someone's pocket. Now, an aristocrat such as yourself and these other guests here would never let their handkerchief be reduced to such a shabby state. Therefore, that means that it belongs to someone who is a member of the lower class. One could argue that the maid is the guilty party, but she wouldn't necessarily have a need for a handkerchief, given her low social status and time spent primarily in the cooler parts of the house. A cook, however, is constantly near flames; a handkerchief would almost be a necessity in order to keep sweat out of the food. If you look at the handkerchief, you can see a variety of stains, namely sweat stains and grease spots, obviously from the stove. The handkerchief would be constantly rubbing itself against the interior of the cooks apron, and would therefore be worn down over a long period of time. Other incriminating "evidence" includes the knife hilt in the butler's chest. It gives off a certain sheen that only someone with consistently sweaty palms would leave behind. Therefore, the cook is the murderer."

Mrs. Hudson audibly clucked her tongue in disapproval.

"Is that... is that right?" Madame Cygne asked her daughter.

Cora bit her lip.

"Uh... yeah. It is."

"Ah. I see," Cygne said. "Well, the case is solved. Justice has been served. I suppose we ought to open gifts now."

She walked sadly out of the room, followed by the other guests. The butler rose from his spot on the table and angrily ripped the hilt off his chest.

"Merde!" he shouted. "You are... no words can even begin to describe my hatred for you! Madame's daughter spends a month planning this day out and you come and spoil it all! My best shirt is ruined and there is a mess on the kitchen floor, all for no good reason!" He spat and left the room in a huff.

Only Cora, John, and Mrs. Hudson stayed behind.

"You utter cock!" John said, trying his damnedest not to shout.

Cora and Mrs. Hudson nervously shifted their feet.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "I was simply-"

"I told you not to say anything! Sure, this whole thing was a bit silly and predictable, but that's the whole point! It's a *murder mystery party*."

"Doctor Watson, really; there's no need to-"

"Pardon me, Cora; but please shut up."

She shut her mouth.

"John-" Sherlock tried.

"Don't!" he said. "Don't say another word."

Mrs. Hudson touched Cora's shoulders.

"Perhaps we should meet with the others?"

Cora sighed.

"I need to get some air."

As Cora left out the back door, Mrs Hudson scurried away to the study.

"John, surely you can't be _that_ cross," Sherlock said.

"I'm not," the doctor sighed. "I'm not."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Just... I wish that for once you'd actually listen to me."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Do I not?"

"You hardly ever do."

"I... sorry...?" Sherlock phrased it as if it were a question.

"No, you're not. But it's fine."

"John..." Sherlock began to speak again. "I think you ought to know-"

"Stop, Sherlock. You aren't good at apologising." John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "We should get home."

"Would you be interested in ordering Chinese?" Sherlock asked him.

John licked his lips.

"I... sure. Whatever, otter-man."

Sherlock smirked along with John.

"You know... that mask looks rather... oh, what's the word?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Ridiculous?"

Sherlock tightened his lips and stepped a bit closer.

"No. Endearing."

John laughed nervously and, once more, licked his lips.

Suddenly, there was a bloodcurdling scream, causing them both to turn around.

"À l'aide! À l'aide!", the maid's desperate cries echoed throughout the whole manor. "Un suicide! Un suicide!"

Sherlock and John exchanged startled glances and ran out of the kitchen to the foyer where the scream had come from.


	26. A Murder Mystery (Part 3)

**~Saturday Night, 21:00~**

Madame Cygne sobbed over the cold corpse of her son that hung from the topmost banister of the stairs.

"My baby boy!" she cried. "Oh god!"

The guests were all in shock, some crying, some tutting about what a shame it was that such a fine young lad decided to go out like this. Monsieur Orange was fanning the maid who was passed out on the floor.

All of the masks had been discarded on the floor.

John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson stayed back in the study with Cora. Mrs. Hudson rubbed the girl's shoulders.

"I just... I don't know what to say..." Cora stammered.

John patted her hand.

"It's always difficult with suicide," Mrs. Hudson said. "Why he would choose today of all days to do it, though..."

"No!" Cora said, standing up. "It can't be suicide! Arthur would never do something so awful to the family!"

"She's right," Sherlock said from his spot in the room.

He had been sitting on one of the chairs, thinking.

The other three occupants looked confusedly at him.

"I am?" Cora asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It couldn't have been suicide. And John can vouch for this conclusion."

He hopped up and grabbed John from the couch.

"Sherl-" John stumbled over his own two feet.

He was dragged by his flatmate back into the foyer, Cora and Mrs. Hudson close at their heels.

"Move, please! Everybody move!" Sherlock shouted.

"I think you've done enough!" Madame Rose said. "Oh, to think I ever fell for you!"

Both Sherlock and John stopped and cocked their heads.

"Never mind that," Sherlock said. "There's an actual murder to investigate!"

"Step away from my son!" Madame Cygne sobbed.

"John," Sherlock gestured.

With an eye roll, John stepped up to the body of Monsieur Bleu (or, more respectfully, Mr. Williams) and, using his pocket-knife, cut him down.

"Oh!" Madame Cygne (Mrs. Williams) cried.

Gently pushing her aside, John let Sherlock step over to the body.

"Mrs. Williams, if Sherlock says that there's been a murder, there's been a murder."

"'Sherlock'?" she questioned.

"That's Sherlock Holmes, and I'm John Watson. We specialise in this sort of thing."

"I've heard about you," the woman sniffed. "You write that blog that Cora's so fond of, yes?"

John nodded, a bit confused. One would think that with this woman's passion for crime, she would know about him and Sherlock.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

"Tell that to Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Williams cried out. "What is he doing?"

Looking down at Sherlock, John noticed that he was giving Mr. Williams's body a pat down.

"Detective stuff," John said.

Did this woman even _read_?

But then again, Sherlock's methods were a bit... unorthodox.

"Signs of a struggle, blood on the coat sleeve, chipped nails... all, except the latter, are all a bit strange for a suicide, don't you think?"

John nodded.

"Mind if I have a look?"

Sherlock stepped back.

John got down on the ground, taking a few minutes to look at the body.

"Hold on..." he said.

He cut away the rope remaining tied around the victim's neck.

"He was throttled," John said. "Look at the pattern of bruising around his neck."

"He hung himself! Of course he was throttled!" Mademoiselle Rouge said

"Manual throttling shows far more different signs than hanging. Sure, his neck is broken, which, if it had been a suicide given the height, would have immediately killed him. But he was dead long before the hanging." John squeezed the body's bicep. "His muscles are completely stiff. Rigor Mortis. He was rotting away upstairs while we were all in the kitchen. The hanging was simply a decoy," he said. "Death by strangulation. Not by hanging."

Sherlock grinned.

"Excellent diagnosis," he said.

The whole group gasped.

"Someone call the police!" Monsieur Vert cried out.

The butler came down the stairs in a hurry.

"Sacrebleu!" he exclaimed. "Le téléphone ne marche plus!"

"No one understands French here!" Mademoiselle Rouge shouted at him.

"The telephone does not work!" he said again.

"Did someone try a cellphone?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Monsieur Orange lifted up his cell.

"No signal."

"Oh God! We're trapped here with a murderer!" Madame Rose cried. "I'm too young to die!"

"Really? Are you sure about that?" Rouge said snidely.

"Murder..." Cora whispered.

She walked over to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, you're a detective. I realise that you barely know me, but please; find the killer."

"It's obvious to me," Monsieur Vert said. "The cook is the guilty one! She's the only one who isn't here!"

"Yes! It must be true!" Rose joined him.

"And what evidence do you have against her?" Cora asked. "Just that she happens to be absent?"

"Yes!" Rose and Vert shouted.

Suddenly, the maid began to wake up.

"Qu'est-ce que je fais par terre?"

Monsieur Orange worked on helping her up.

"Perhaps we should start with the cook," Sherlock said. "She hasn't committed the crime, but she probably saw something."

John nodded and stood up, immediately falling to his knees again.

"Ah! Damn," he cursed.

"Doctor Watson? Are you alright?" Cora asked, grabbing his arm.

John brushed her off.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I just stood up too quickly."

Sherlock knitted his brow.

"That rarely happens."

John slowly pushed himself onto his feet.

"I'm fine. I promise."

As soon as he steadied himself he, Sherlock, and Cora went in search of the cook.

Mrs. Hudson faced the guests awkwardly.

"Why don't we all sit outside?" she proposed.

Monsieur Orange stood up with the maid.

"I think that's an excellent idea. We need to all clear our heads."

* * *

**~Saturday Night, 21:30~**

"Miss L?" Cora called.

"Where did you have her stationed for the party?" John asked.

"My bedroom."

The three of them approached the door, and Cora tried the handle.

"Damn. It's locked." She knocked on the door. "Miss L?"

There was no answer.

"Miss L!" she cried, her knocking becoming more frantic.

"Here," John said, pushing her aside.

With a heave, he rammed his shoulder against the doorframe once.

He groaned.

Twice.

"Fuck," he swore.

The third time, it gave way, sending John down onto the floor.

"Oh my God," Cora whispered.

On the bed lay the chef, a bullet hole lodged in her left temple. The gun had been carelessly thrown to the side.

"Jesus," John muttered. "Could someone help me up?"

Quickly, Sherlock helped John to his feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"It looks like these guys don't fuck around when it comes to durability. Christ."

He rubbed his shoulder and his temples, surprised at the sudden emergence of a headache.

"How did we not hear the shot?" he asked.

"The killer could have easily muffled it with a pillow," Cora said. "Especially given the noise downstairs. Look at this!" She picked up a blue satin pillow and pointed to a bullet hole in the middle of it.

Sherlock nodded.

"You seem to be more attuned to criminology than your mother."

Cora shrugged.

"I like detective stories."

"The cook is dead. So what does that narrow it down to?" Sherlock pondered.

"Well, if it wasn't the butler, it was the maid," John snorted.

"No, she's far too frail," Sherlock said.

"It was a joke..."

"Ah."

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"You two: leave. I need some time to think."

Cora and John looked at each other with raised eyebrows and left the room, shutting the door behind them.

It was all quiet downstairs.

"Looks like everyone went outside," Cora said.

John nodded.

"I guess it's for the best."

He tripped on the floor and fell to his hands and knees.

"Oh!" Cora cried. "Are you alright?"

She knelt next to John.

"Yeah..." he said. "...no. I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I just... I just got really sick all of a sudden."

"That's not good," Cora said. "Would you like to lie down for a bit?"

"No. No..." John said, struggling to stand.

He fell back to the floor.

"What the hell-?"

"Alright. I'm sending you to bed," Cora said. "The last thing we need is another body. Come on."

She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and helped him into her mother's bedroom, gently laying him down.

"There you are," she said.

"I'm fine," John said.

"Sure, sure," Cora smirked. "You're a strong man who loses to no illness."

John sighed and closed his eyes.

"You know, you seem to be doing pretty well, considering that your brother just died."

Cora's smile disappeared.

"That's how I cope."

John lazily opened his lids to look at her.

"With loss?"

"With a lot of things."

"Give me an example."

She stayed quiet.

"You ought to rest now, Doctor Watson," she finally said. "Close your eyes."

Reluctantly, John obliged.


	27. A Murder Mystery (Part 4)

**~Saturday Night, 21:55~**

Sherlock stood above the corpse of the cook, scrutinising the bullet wound.

_Close range, straight shot... war veteran? No. Monsieur Vert was present the whole time. The maid? Perhaps. Don't rule her out..._

What the hell was happening here? The door had been locked from the inside, the floor was free of all footprints, the window was shut...

But not locked.

_The window_.

Sherlock strode over to the window, sliding it open with ease. He peered over the edge, catching sight of a lattice wrapped with green vines. So perhaps someone had climbed up to the window. It couldn't have been Monsieur Vert; he was far too old and therefore lacked the agility. The maid had been wearing heels, so she couldn't have climbed all that way. Monsieur Orange? What motive would he have, though? Rose? No. She was too fat. Rouge? No; she wore heels. Obviously not Mrs. Hudson.

But then again, heels could be removed…

"SHERLOCK!"

He whipped his head around.

"Cora?!"

"Sherlock, come quickly! It's Doctor Watson!"

Sherlock immediately raced out of the room, running down the hall into Mrs. Williams's room.

There on the bed was John, shivering as if it were below zero, his forehead shining with sweat and his fists clenching and unclenching. Cora had her hand on his forehead.

"Sherlock, he's on fire," she said.

Sherlock rushed to the other side of the bed and cupped John's cheek in his hand, feeling the heat coming off his friend's skin like a radiator.

He frantically looked up at Cora.

"Call Mrs. Hudson," he said.

* * *

**~Saturday Night, 22:05~**

"Hand me another cold compress, dear," Mrs. Hudson said to Cora.

John moaned as he swallowed.

"Shh..." Mrs. Hudson soothed.

She looked up at Sherlock.

"What on Earth happened?"

Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the room.

"I don't know. One minute he was fine, and the next-"

He paused.

"Unless..."

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Poison."

"Excuse me?" Cora said as she stepped into the room.

"His drink. It could have easily been poisoned."

He knelt beside the bed and took John's pulse.

_Rapid._

"Could he have been drugged?" Cora speculated as she placed another cold compress on John's head.

"No," Sherlock answered, far too quickly for his liking. "No."

"Who could have poisoned him?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Such a good man."

Sherlock rested his fingers on John's carotid artery.

"Orange is a doctor, is he not?"

He looked over at Cora.

"Uh... yes. He is."

Sherlock tightened his lips impatiently.

"Right," Cora nodded. "I'll be right back."

She ran out of the room.

"Mrs. Hudson, what do you make of all of this?"

The landlady dabbed John's brow with the compress.

"Sherlock, I don't know. So much has gone so wrong tonight," she sighed. "I can't even begin to comprehend this situation."

"Has Cora seemed... ever-present?"

Mrs. Hudson stared at him.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you are suggesting that that sweet girl is a murderer..."

"Once you rule out the impossible-"

"Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," John whispered hoarsely.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand.

"John, how are you feeling?"

"Like death," John said. "More to the point: I agree with you."

Sherlock stared at him intently.

"Really?"

"Sherlock, I don't trust her."

He groaned.

"Just... you're going to have to solve this one on your own."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm here," Monsieur Orange said as he stepped into the room. "How is he?"

"Awake and barely lucid," John muttered. "And I have a feeling I might either be losing consciousness or dying."

"Don't say that," Sherlock hissed.

"My name is Lawrence. Oliver Lawrence," the other doctor said. "By the way."

He pulled a chair up next to the bed and opened his briefcase.

"I'll need someone to stay here to help me."

"I will," Mrs. Hudson said as she gripped John's hand. "He's practically my son."

John laughed weakly.

"Thanks, Mrs. H. You're... fantastic..."

And he closed his eyes.

"He's unconscious right now," Lawrence said as he noted Sherlock's concerned expression. "Perhaps that will give me time to find the source of the poison. I've got some ideas in mind right now as to what it might be."

Cora nodded.

"Thank you, Oliver."

He smiled at her.

"No trouble at all."

Cora's lip trembled a bit and she quickly stepped out of the room.

"If anything happens," Sherlock said to Lawrence. "_Anything_; tell me."

"Of course."

Sherlock gave his flatmate one last concerned glance and stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Cora was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

**~Saturday Night, 22:18~**

"Cora?" Sherlock called.

He listened carefully. Coming from the bathroom down another hall was the sound of crying.

Sherlock carefully approached the door and knocked.

"Get out of there," he called.

The crying stopped, and the door opened. Cora stood there, wiping here eyes with her hands.

"What?"

"Why are you crying?" Sherlock asked, not soothingly, but rather accusatorially.

"I just... I never meant for any of this to happen," she said. "I never wanted this."

"What? To kill your brother?"

She looked at the detective with a hurt expression.

"Me? How could you accuse me of doing something so dreadful?"

"Because of what you did to your mother."

Cora sniffed.

"You know?"

"I'm the world's greatest detective," Sherlock said. "Of course I know."

"But how?"

"The powder beneath your nails, the blender in your kitchen, and the sugar stuck to the counters. You've been slowly poisoning your mother. And the cook was in on it, too."

"Wow," Cora said, wiping again at her eyes. "You weren't kidding."

"My only question is why?"

Cora sunk down to the floor, burying her head in her hands.

"She... she was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer last month. She, of course, didn't want to admit to her inevitable death and has been refusing chemotherapy and hospital stays. But she just keeps getting worse and worse."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Cancer?"

"She doesn't look it, does she?" Cora said with a slight laugh. "Hours spent in front of the mirror making herself look decent masks what's really happening."

Sherlock bit his cheek and sat down next to her.

"She seemed rather healthy to me."

"The blender that you mentioned? She drinks nothing but puréed fruits and vegetables. Insists that they are making her "better and better". But I hear her crying at night. She just sobs and sobs into her pillow until she falls asleep. And I can't watch her go through that much longer."

Sherlock sighed.

"When did you start poisoning her drinks?"

"Three weeks ago," Cora said. "It's been slowing her down considerably. The way I've been measuring the doses hopefully means that she'll die in her sleep two Fridays from now."

"A mercy killing?"

Cora nodded.

"But Arthur, my brother, found out. And he didn't tell me. Until I caught him in bed with Elizabeth... our cousin who you just met."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "_Oh._"

"I was mortified. I wasn't sure if I should say anything or not, but Arthur made the decision for me. He told me he knew what I was doing to Mum. That he would tell her and have me arrested if I said anything to anyone. He was already in hot water over his affair with our former maid, Mathilde."

"Internal affairs," Sherlock mumbled. "Interesting."

"Of course, I couldn't _not _say anything. I had to tell someone. It was this burden eating away at me. So I told our current maid, my best friend, Fiona."

It was starting to make sense.

"Does Fiona speak English?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Quite well. But she prefers her first language."

Sherlock nodded.

"I think I know who our killer is."

Suddenly from down the hall came frantic noises. The only intelligible sentence that registered in Sherlock's head was:

"You do compressions!"

And time stopped.


	28. A Murder Mystery (Part 5)

**Keep in mind that French is _not _my first language. I'm only in my second year of learning it, but I think I've done alright. Hopefully. For those of you who do speak French fluently, be kind. I realise that there may be some issues with grammar or spelling, but I tried my best. If there are any glaring errors, please let me know, though. ;)**

* * *

**~Saturday Night, 22:30~**

Sherlock ran down the hall into the bedroom, Cora following close behind him.

His heart dropped when he saw John on the floor, Doctor Lawrence pounding his chest with his fists and Mrs. Hudson tearfully breathing into him.

"What happened?!" Sherlock cried as he slid onto his knees.

"Cardiac... Arrest..." Lawrence said in between pumps. "Breathe."

Mrs. Hudson blew two breaths into John.

"Move!" Sherlock commanded her and Doctor Lawrence.

"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson is dying! We don't have time to-"

Sherlock shoved him aside and took a place beside John, immediately pumping on his chest.

"Come on, you idiot," Sherlock mumbled. "Don't do this."

After thirty, he breathed twice into John.

God, those lips were still warm.

Barely.

"This wasn't meant to happen," he muttered. "We were meant to leave for home and order Chinese takeout. Perhaps watch some crap telly."

Two breaths.

"Come on, John Watson. Get your heart beating again. You've never given up before, and you shouldn't now. Not when we have our entire lives that need living."

Two more breaths.

He wasn't responding.

"Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, teary-eyed.

"No!" the detective screamed at her. "He'll live!"

"He's right," Cora said. "He will."

She sat on the other side of John's body.

"I'll do the chest compressions," she said.

Without another word, she started pumping on John's chest.

"Please John. Please come back," Sherlock said.

He breathed into him twice more.

"For me."

With a shuddering gasp and cough, John sprung to life.

"John?" Sherlock said.

He lifted John's torso off the ground, taking care to support his head, as the doctor tried taking deep breaths.

"Don't... kiss me..." John panted.

Sherlock closed his eyes, relieved.

"John... don't do that again."

"Can't... help it," John chuckled. "But if... it gets you... worked up like this..."

"John, if you die _ever_ again, I will use your kettle to store my collection of severed phalanges."

John narrowed his eyes.

"Do it and I will haunt your arse."

"The notion that spectral beings could even exist-"

"Shut up," John said. "Please."

He brought an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled himself into a sitting position.

"Oh Jesus," he moaned. "Oh God. I might _choose_ to go into cardiac arrest again."

"Let me help," Doctor Lawrence and Mrs. Hudson said almost simultaneously.

"I'm fine," John said.

"It's funny, John: every time you say that, you seem to get worse and worse. Now be quiet and lay back down."

"Sherlock-"

"Your heart stopped, and we nearly failed to restart it. If you don't lay down and rest, I will strap you down to the bed."

John blushed.

"Please don't phrase it like that."

Lawrence and Mrs. Hudson took John from Sherlock's arms and helped him onto the bed.

"Keep a close eye on him," Sherlock said to them both. "I have a culprit to unmask."

"You solved it?" John asked.

He sounded on the verge of sleep again.

Sherlock sat by John and patted his thigh.

"I'll tell you about it when you're well again."

"I'll stay to help," Cora said.

"No," Sherlock stopped her. "I need you with me."

She nodded obediently.

"Okay."

"I've got a signal on my phone!" Doctor Lawrence said. "I'll phone an ambulance."

"And Scotland Yard, while you're at it," Sherlock said.

He stood up.

"Come along, Cora. We've got work to do."

* * *

**~Saturday Night, 22:50**~

"What have you been giving her?" Sherlock asked Cora as they went down the stairs.

"Arsenic," she said. "They should be in my medicine cabinet."

As they entered her bedroom, they found that though the cook was undisturbed, the gun that had been lying next to her had disappeared.

"Oh God," Cora whispered. "We're in trouble."

Sherlock nodded and motioned towards the bathroom.

"Grab the tablets. Then run downstairs and wait outside for the ambulance and the police."

Cora quickly darted into the bathroom and rummaged around a bit before coming back out, empty-handed.

"They aren't there!"

"Of course not," a feminine voice said as a gun was cocked.

The woman had a French accent.

"Oh Lord," Sherlock muttered. "You've got to be joking. It was _you _the whole time?"

Fiona, the maid, chuckled waving the gun in Sherlock's face.

"Well, Monsieur Holmes, I can tell that you fell for my façade; une demoiselle en détresse. Convincing, n'est-ce pas?"

"You are quite the actress," Sherlock said. "Bravo."

"Fiona, what have you done?" Cora asked.

Fiona steadied the gun.

"Allow me to explain: After you told me about Arthur's liaison with Mademoiselle Elizabeth, I was très furieuse. I tried talking to him, but he simply brushed me off and said: "There is no problem, Fiona. You are making an issue out of nothing. You are being très ridicule". Il n'y a pas de problème, he tells me. He then breaks our relationship off! Vous imaginez! He is unfaithful, and then he leaves! I was désespéré! All I could do was cry. And then I thought to myself: "C'est facile! Je vais le tuer lui!""

"Yes. How perfectly sane," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"You know French?" Cora asked him.

He shrugged.

"Only a bit."

"Fermez vos gueules!" the maid yelled. "Alors... I remembered the arsenic poison Mademoiselle had mentioned. And I thought: "C'est parfait!" At the party I would do it. But then you showed up. You and the doctor. I recognised your faces from Mademoiselle's website she likes. I remembered you two were des détectives. So I had to do something assez drastique."

"You poisoned John," Sherlock growled.

"Mais oui. It would make you less focused, I thought."

"It certainly helped stall for time."

"Oui. C'est vrai. I slipped three tablets in Arthur's drink and two in the doctor's. When Arthur ran upstairs with an upset belly, I waited until the right time to leave. You gave me that, Monsieur."

Sherlock grimaced.

"He was on the floor, weak. I used this to my advantage and began to choke him. Not being strong, he easily died. It felt fantastique, Monsieur."

"You monster," Cora said with absolute disgust.

"Moi? Non. Surely you mean Arthur. L'inceste. Beurk," she gagged. "But then the chef caught me. She began becoming crazy, almost screaming. So I pushed her into the bedroom and, with the pistol in Mademoiselle's bureau, put a pillow to her head and _boom_! I then locked the door, opened the window, and threw my shoes down. I climbed down, and ran to the front door. And then I screamed." She sighed. "Alors, now you understand. I should shoot you now."

"Wait!" Sherlock said.

Fiona paused.

"Oui?"

"Vatican Cameos!" he shouted. The words echoed throughout the house.

Fiona and Cora both stared confusedly at him, not really sure what to make of those two words.

Then Cora's eyes lit up, showing she had caught on.

"Quoi?" Fiona exclaimed.

"Never mind," Sherlock told her.

Mrs. Hudson was bound to understand. She would grab help.

"I do not have the time for this!" Fiona cried. "I have to kill you now!"

She prepared to pull the trigger, when suddenly...

"Hey!"

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock when he saw John standing at the door, gun pointed at Fiona's head.

Fiona turned around to meet the eye of the barrel.

John licked his lips.

"Only I can point a gun at Sherlock Holmes."

And he fired.

And Fiona went down.

John dropped his gun and his knees buckled. Immediately, Sherlock dove to catch him as Doctor Lawrence grabbed him from behind, and they both stood him upright against the wall.

"You _idiot_," Sherlock said to John. "You could have gotten hurt."

John raised an eyebrow.

"A bit late for that, yeah?" He lurched forward in pain.

"What the hell has happened?" Mrs. Williams's voice sounded from downstairs.

The sounds of the other guests approached as well.

And the sound of sirens.

"Thank Christ," John muttered. "I think I'll pass out again, now."

And he did just that.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock called as he, with the help of Lawrence, began to lower the doctor to the floor.

"I've got it," Cora assured him. "I'll let them know we're here."


	29. A Murder Mystery (Final)

**~Sunday Afternoon, 11:30~**

Sherlock was curled up in a chair beside John, his laptop resting on his knees. Occasionally, he glanced up at the heart monitor beside John, noting the BPM and its overall rhythmic beep. Mrs. Hudson had gone back to the flat only about an hour earlier, finally giving in to her exhaustion, yet promising her swift return.

Sherlock honestly hoped she would take her time.

There was a small knock on the door.

"Mr. Holmes?" It was Cora.

Sherlock closed his laptop and turned to face her.

"Formalities are overrated. Call me by my first name. We've been acquainted long enough."

Cora smiled softly and walked into the room, shutting the door behind her. She was wearing a short, black jacket with a thin, red scarf tied over her silver locket and paired with a pair of black skinny jeans and knee-high boots. Her short hair had obviously been hastily styled.

"Did you tell your mother?" Sherlock asked.

Cora nodded.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"She won't tell the police. But I'm to be out of the house by six tonight."

"Ah."

Cora bit her cheek and leaned against the back wall.

"I've been such an idiot," she said. "How could I have thought that I was actually making the situation better?"

Sherlock set his laptop on the bedside table and crossed his legs.

"You had your mother's best interests at heart."

Cora sniffed.

"That wasn't a good enough reason. Because of my own bloody sentimentality, my brother and my best friend are dead, I'm homeless, and my mother hates me."

"The latter is a bit of a stretch…" Sherlock said.

"I tried to kill her, Sherlock. Granted, to put her out of her misery, but that still doesn't change what it is."

Sherlock sighed.

"Normally I wouldn't be one to support the moronic actions of another human being, but with you I feel a different emotion. Sympathy. Perhaps it is the fact that I now have someone I care a great deal about, so I can more realistically imagine myself in your position." He slid his finger along the metal rail of the hospital bed. "Maybe I've taken a liking to you. Who knows?"

He stood up.

"My point is, don't dwell on the past. Whatever happened after you began poisoning your mother was out of your control; I can understand that. Accept it and carry on with your life."

Cora nodded and choked back a sob.

"Where do I start?"

Sherlock thought for a moment.

"If you'd be interested at the prospect of having a flatmate, I know a woman who might like to have you in her home."

"What's her name?"

Sherlock scribbled out a number on a slip of paper and handed it to her.

"Her name is Molly Hooper. Tell her it was me who referred you to her."

Cora smiled.

"Thanks."

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets.

"What did you tell the police?"

Cora slid the number in her purse.

"That the maid snapped and went insane."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, you didn't lie."

Cora smiled.

"At least I'm not all bad." She straightened up. "I suppose I ought to get going. Tell Doctor Watson to get well. And that I'm sorry."

Sherlock nodded at her.

"Take care of yourself."

"You too."

* * *

**~Monday Morning, 10:00~**

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm _fine_."

"There it is again. I'm beginning to see Sherlock's frustration with that word," the landlady scoffed. "Now stop acting like a baby and let me help you to your chair."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Be quiet," John said to the detective, without a hint of anger in his tone.

Mrs. Hudson plopped John down into his chair.

"There you are," she said. "Was that so bad?"

John blushed.

"I have my cane to help me, Mrs. H…"

"You do. And you have me as well," Mrs. Hudson smiled. She kissed him on his forehead. "I don't want you overexerting yourself, dear. You gave me quite a fright back at Genevieve's. I thought for sure that-" She bit her lip. "Well… you're recovering now. And that's all that matters. Would you care for some tea?" she asked.

"I think tea is very much a necessity, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"I'll turn on the stove."

As she started into the kitchen, Sherlock cleared his throat. The landlady stopped in her tracks.

"Oh," she said as she understood the signal. "_My _stove."

And she hurried off downstairs.

"So," John said.

"So."

"You didn't tell me much about how the case turned out."

Sherlock sat down in his own chair and steepled his hands beneath his chin.

"Are you positive you'd like to hear it?"

John leaned back into the pillow on his chair and nodded.

"You didn't say anything to me about it in the hospital. So I want to hear it now. Besides, after being poisoned, I think I deserve to know _why_."

"Do you want an explanation or a summary?"

John thought for a minute.

"A summary would be nice."

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright. Due to Mrs. Williams's denial of her fatal breast cancer diagnosis and refusal to get treatment despite the pain she was in, Cora began slowly poisoning her with arsenic tablets to quicken the dying process and make the her mother's final moments less painful and sudden. Her brother Arthur, Monsieur Bleu, however, found out while he was shagging their cousin Elizabeth, Mademoiselle Rouge, and threatened to tell their mother about the poison if Cora said anything about Arthur's affair. I say affair because Arthur and the maid, Fiona, were in a relationship, unbeknownst to the entire family. Due to her lack of knowledge of this relationship, Cora felt as if she were safe to reveal to Fiona, her "best" and most likely only "friend" about the whole situation, as she needed to release that burden from her chest. Fiona decided to murder Arthur at the party a pose it as a suicide. Then we showed up and she, courtesy of knowing Cora's interests far too well, recognised us. So in order to slow me down, she poisoned you along with Arthur, giving Arthur a larger dose. When Arthur ran upstairs, he felt genuinely ill from the poison. In his weakened state, Fiona could easily sneak upstairs, choke him, and hang him from the banister; all a part of her original plan. But then the cook caught her. Now Fiona, thinking quickly, knew exactly how to snuff the woman out. She remembered the gun in Cora's bureau and used that, along with the pillow to silence the shot, to kill the cook. She locked the door and escaped out the window by throwing her shoes down first and then climbing down. She ran through the front door, shut it, and let out a scream. Of course I, having stupidly jumped to conclusions, overlooked the maid at first, not giving myself a chance to even once take a good look at the state of her clothes." He took a breath. "And there you have it."

John looked a bit overwhelmed.

"Wow."

"Mhm."

The doctor smirked.

"So I was right, then?"

"What?"

"The maid did it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I suppose, in a sense, yes. You were correct."

John looked down at the floor.

"Cora, though…"

"Yes. I had suspected she was involved in such an activity."

John's eyes widened.

"Seriously? You didn't think to bring it up to me sooner?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"You told me not to say anything."

John squeezed his eyes shut.

"That's what you were going to say to me?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Fuck," John muttered. "I mean, you could have insisted..."

"Fiona screamed before I had the chance."

John snorted.

"You were too busy flirting with me."

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows.

"I wouldn't put it that way."

John grinned.

"I would."

They both sat there for a while.

"Sherlock," John said, "How distracted were you?"

"What do you mean?"

"When I was poisoned. Did that really affect you?"

Sherlock swallowed a hard lump in his throat.

"One could say I was… concerned. You could go as far as to say frightened."

John looked down at his feet.

"I don't… I don't really remember much. All I really can remember is a lot of sweat and pain. Did I cause you a lot of trouble?"

Sherlock frowned.

"You don't remember dying?"

John's face blanched.

"I thought I'd dreamt up the whole thing."

Sherlock's leg began nervously bobbing up and down.

"No." He swallowed again. "Your heart stopped."

John let out a breath.

"Jesus."

"You should also know that you saved my life."

John raised his eyebrow.

"Really?"

Sherlock laughed a bit.

"According to Mrs. Hudson, after I shouted for help, you were practically dragging yourself out the door. Doctor Lawrence had to help you down the hall. You stood in front of the door and shot Fiona right between the eyes."

John's jaw was hanging slightly open.

"Shit. Really?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Wait," John said. "She was about to shoot you?"

"You saved both Cora's and my life. Idiot."

"Hey, I'm glad I did," John said.

"What's happening with Cora?" he asked.

"She told her mother everything. She's been kicked out of the house."

John frowned.

"Oh."

"Yes, but I referred her to Molly."

"That's nice," John said. "We'll be seeing more of her, then?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I certainly hope so."

"That doesn't sound like you."

Sherlock shifted his eyes to the floor.

"There's something about her. I don't know, John. But…"

"You like her?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I suppose so, yes. She could prove to be a useful ally."

"The whole poisoning thing with her mother is just water under the bridge, then?"

"I can understand why she decided taking such a measure was necessary."

"Mercy," John said. "I get it. I mean, I don't agree with it, but I get it."

He yawned.

"Jesus, I'm tired."

Sherlock stood up from his chair.

"You've been through quite an ordeal, John. Of course you're tired."

"Would you be averse to putting on some crap telly?" John asked, a slight grin on his face. "Otter-man?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said with a smile of his own. "Hedgehog."


	30. A Bad Idea

**Thanks to zxully for the prompt.**

* * *

John grunted as he set his basket of clean clothes down on his bed.

"God, this is long overdue," he said to himself.

It seemed like ages since he had had a chance to put his clothes through the wash; Sherlock and work had been running him ragged.

As usual.

John turned his clock radio to the BBC news, bored when it was simply covering recent football scores. He changed the station to some classic jazz. With a contented sigh, he began unloading his laundry hamper, sorting the closet clothes from those that went in his bureau. It was pleasing to smell the fresh scent of detergent and dryer sheets.

"John!" he heard Sherlock call from downstairs.

He immediately tensed up, knowing that whatever his flatmate wanted was going to be time-consuming and rather labour intensive. And John really needed a break. Reluctantly, he put down his green jumper on the bed and stepped out into the hallway.

"What is it, Sherlock? I'm busy!" he called back down.

"Your clothes can wait, John. I need your help."

John looked back at his recently laundered clothes and sighed.

"Fine," he said, submissively.

He jogged down the stairs into the sitting room.

"What is it you need my help with?" John asked. "Homicide or theft?"

"Neither," Sherlock said as he stepped out from the kitchen. "An experiment."

John narrowed his eyes.

"I am not giving you any more of my plasma." He crossed his arms. "Unwillingly, I might add."

"I only borrowed-"

"_Stole_."

"_Borrowed_ your plasma once. And that was completely necessary for my research." Sherlock cleared his throat. "More to the point, this particular experiment involves myself as the test subject."

Alarm bells started going off in John's head.

"Sherlock Holmes, whatever you're thinking of doing, _don't do it_."

"John, I need your help because you're not only my friend and therefore convenient, but you're also a doctor. Therefore, your opinion and regard for my safety is reliable. Not valued, necessarily, but reliable."

John tapped his foot.

"What exactly does this experiment involve?"

"A hallucinogen."

John rolled his eyes.

"Why in God's name would you want to take a hallucinogenic drug?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Curiosity."

John bit his lip and thought for a moment.

"Okay," he said finally, sounding resigned. "But we're going to take all possible safety precautions. I don't want you getting hurt."

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock mumbled.

"Shut up," John scolded him. "You might be an annoying prick, but I still care about you. So if you're going to insist on drugging yourself, I'm going to supervise you the whole time."

"That was the initial plan."

"Good," John nodded. "I'll measure the dosage for you. That way you won't get too drug-happy and overdose. Then I want you to lie down on the couch. I'll have my phone nearby to dial 999 in case anything goes wrong. And if you'll give me time, I'll grab my med-kit from my room."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're being oddly supportive."

"Yeah, well if I don't agree to do this, you're going to go through with it anyway on your own. And I can't have that."

Sherlock's lip twitched awkwardly.

"Oh. Well. Shall we get started?"

After about ten minutes, the living room had been properly prepared for testing. John had his phone set on the side table and his med-kit beside a stool in front of the couch, blankets and been set aside, and plenty of pillows were at the ready.

He sat on the stool in front of Sherlock who was on the couch.

"After you administer the drug, I want you to give it fifteen minutes to take full effect. Then, start taking notes."

John nodded and swallowed.

"I can't believe I'm condoning this," he said as he tapped the vein in Sherlock's arm. "This is wrong."

"It will be fine, John."

With a nervous breath, John carefully injected the hallucinogen. The detective seemed to groan with pleasure.

"Don't do that," John told him. "Please."

Sherlock smirked.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

John tightened his lips out of annoyance.

After about fifteen minutes, John noticed that Sherlock's pupils had gotten considerably larger.

"Okay, Sherlock. Here we go," he muttered to himself.

"I feel strange," Sherlock said.

John jotted down a note.

*Already lacking lucidity*

Jesus Christ, was he really doing this?

Sherlock giggled.

"Fascinating."

John couldn't help but smile to himself.

*Giggle is adorable*

"He'll love seeing this."

"That head is mocking me," Sherlock said with a frown. He was looking at the bull head on the wall.

John shook his head and took note.

"Shut up," Sherlock said. "Shut up!"

John furrowed his brow.

Damn, this drug was more effective than he thought. Even in small doses.

"Your obvious inability to protect yourself in the wild lost you your body! At the hands of humans! I believe you aren't in any position to make any sort of comment in regards to my intelligence!"

Was he arguing with the bull?

"_My _intelligence far exceeds that of your species!"

John took more notes.

"Ha! Afraid to engage in an argument! Exactly what I expected!"

He quieted down, taking rapid breaths. John was becoming a bit concerned. His eyes shifted to his kit, then to his cell.

No. Sherlock was fine. He was just experiencing the effects of the drug.

John sat there for about an hour, taking careful notes. Mostly, Sherlock just seemed loopy and experiencing mild hallucinations. All to be expected.

Then things began to take a turn.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. And he began to sweat.

"You," he hissed, his breath becoming erratic.

John's eyes widened. What the hell was happening?

"Sherlock?"

"No. How can-? No! Get away from me!" Sherlock shouted.

Well, this turned out horribly.

"Sherlock, relax," John said.

How was he supposed to reason with a drug-infused sociopath?

"Leave me alone!"

John saw his friend winding up his arm, and he immediately threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding the punch.

"Christ, Sherlock!" he cried out.

This was a bit not good.

John jumped to his feet.

"It's me, Sherlock. Calm down," he reassured him.

Sherlock lunged at him and grabbed the collar of his shirt.

"Sherlock, please relax!" John begged him.

He knew what Sherlock was capable of. And he didn't want to be the victim of it.

"You belong in the ground," Sherlock growled. "Where you can't hurt anyone."

He pinned John up against the wall.

"Sherl- ack!"

"I've got you exactly where you deserve to be; at my mercy. Jim," the detective hissed.

John felt his own breathing stop. Maybe that was due to Sherlock's impressively strong hold on his throat.

Maybe it was because of the sudden mention of Moriarty. The slimy bastard.

"Oof!" John grunted as he felt Sherlock knee him in the stomach.

Okay; that hurt.

"Sherlock, please," he wheezed.

Sherlock threw him to the ground and grabbed the stool, standing threateningly above him.

Shit.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to find himself collapsed on the kitchen floor.

God, his head was throbbing.

He sat up, rubbing his temples.

What had happened with that drug?

He looked around to find the kitchen in disarray. The table was overturned and broken plates were strewn about the place. It resembled the crime scenes Sherlock deduced.

Deduction. Right. He should use that.

Shakily, he got to his feet.

He willed his brain to think; to do something other than complain about how much pain he was in. But he couldn't seem to focus.

This experiment had been a terrible idea.

"John?" he called.

His throat felt scratchy and sounded incredibly hoarse.

Thirsty.

He stumbled over to the sink ad turned on the tap, cupping his hands to collect the cool water. He drank every drop.

After taking another handful of water and splashing it on his sweat-covered face, he turned off the water and gripped the edges of the sink, taking deep breaths as he tried to regain his bearings.

"John!" he called again.

There was no response.

"John, I am in desperate need of a panacea. Or aspirin. Either will suffice."

He turned around to face the sitting room, disturbed when he found it in an even worse state than the kitchen.

Both his and John's chairs laid on their side, the objects on the mantle of the fireplace were scattered across the floor, the lamp beside John's usual spot was shattered, and the bull head had fallen on the table, its fall having dented the cover of Sherlock's laptop.

"John?"

Sherlock was getting worried. It was obvious he had gotten out of control while under the influence. But what had happened to John?

"Sherlock?" a quiet-sounding voice responded.

It was John.

"John, where are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Depends," John said with a pained gulp. "Have you... have you calmed down?"

Sherlock turned to the bathroom door. It sounded like John was in there.

He shuffled to the door and knocked.

"I've come down, John. I'm fine," he said. "Can you come out? I think I need headache medication."

"Sherlock, I... okay. Hold... hold on."

There was an uncomfortably long pause as John unlocked the bathroom door. Sherlock opened the door to find John sitting on the floor holding the lower left side of his chest, blood slowly oozing through his fingers.

"It looks... worse than it is," John said. "I think I might have a uh... a concussion."

Sherlock hastily got down to his knees and pried John's hand away. There was no wound on his chest, but John's hand was full of broken china from one of the shattered plates. Looking at John's face, he saw a bruise that was beginning to form on the man's jaw, one of his eyes was swollen, and his upper lip was coated in dried blood from an apparent nosebleed.

"John, did... did I do this?" Sherlock asked.

A stupid question.

"It's alright. Things just... got a bit out of control."

"How...?"

"Apparently you... you thought I was _him_."

Sherlock paled when he realised who John meant.

"Oh."

"Yeah," John said. "Look, my... my ribs are bruised. I checked: none of... them are... you know..."

"Broken?"

"Yeah. That."

"John, I'm so, so sorry."

"Just... can you help me up?"

Sherlock nodded and lifted up his friend, sitting him down on the top of the toilet.

"Hold out your hand," Sherlock commanded him.

"Your head..."

"My head can wait. Just let me take care of you. It's the least I can do."

Sherlock grabbed the tweezers from the medicine cabinet.

"Are you... lucid enough?" John asked.

"John, please."

Sherlock gently began pulling shards of china out of the palm of John's hand, not missing the doctor's slight wince at each pull.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said every time he removed a piece.

John simply stared at the floor.

As soon as all of the shards had been cleaned out, Sherlock took a cloth from the towel rack and wet it with soap and water. Then he started cleaning John's wounds. He felt his own hands shake as he carefully scrubbed the blood away; the blood he was responsible for.

He gently rinsed away the soap and dried off John's hand. Of course, the cuts began to bleed again.

"John-"

"In the sitting room."

With an apologetic look, Sherlock walked out of the bathroom to fetch the med-kit. As he searched the room through the mess, he noticed John's cell was on the floor, dented and broken beyond recognition. He picked it up, brushing his index finger across the surface.

Jesus.

He carefully pocketed the broken phone and scanned the floor. He finally saw the kit and grabbed it, making a swift return to the bathroom.

Without a word, or even dating to look John in the eye, he opened it and got out the gauze, proceeding to wrap it around John's hand with absolute precision.

After clipping the bandages in place, he took a look at John's face. There wasn't much he could do about the bruising, other than icing it, but he assumed John would prefer to do that himself. But that blood needed cleaned off.

He gave John a pleading look.

"You know, you can... talk to me," John said.

Those ribs must have been painful.

"I- right. Do you mind if I... you know...?"

John sighed.

"Go ahead."

Sherlock nodded and took a different cloth, wetting it in the sink and then gently wiped the blood from beneath John's nose. This process didn't take nearly as long.

Sherlock set the cloth aside and reached in the kit for painkillers. He handed two tablets to John.

"Thanks," John said with a tired smile. He swallowed them both.

"I would recommend ice for your bruises," Sherlock said.

John shrugged.

"I don't want to."

"Okay."

Sherlock leaned against the wall with crossed arms, nervously drumming his fingers on his elbow.

"John, I-"

"It's fine. Can I go to bed? _My_ bed?"

"Certainly. Would you like-"

"Please."

Silently, Sherlock aided his flatmate upstairs, resisting the urge to carry him after hearing his many pained grunts. But soon enough, he had successfully gotten John into bed, having moved the laundry basket to the floor.

He left the room without so much as a 'goodnight'. But John didn't seem like he wanted one.

* * *

John groaned as he woke up and stretched. He'd partially forgotten the full extent of the damage done to his body yesterday.

Or was it yesterday?

He looked at his bedside clock.

It was eight in the morning.

Obviously what happened hadn't happened today. But was it yesterday? Or two days ago? A week?

How long has he been out?

"Sherlock?"

"I'm here!"

John struggled to sit up, but managed to lean himself against the headboard as his flatmate came bounding into the room.

"I do apologise, John. I had intended to arrive home earlier, but-"

"What day is it?" John asked him.

"The last time I checked, it was Wednesday."

John's eyes widened.

"But... what happened to Tuesday?"

"It passed us by. As any day is wont to do."

"Sarah's going to kill me," John moaned.

"Never mind that. I informed her that you were incapacitated and therefore unable to make it into the office."

"Did you phrase it as politely as that?"

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the right.

"Perhaps."

"How did I end up sleeping that long?" John yawned.

"Morphine."

"Dare I ask: How in the hell did you manage to get morphine?"

"Irrelevant. You're awake now. And hopefully feeling better."

John nodded.

"Yeah, actually."

"Here," Sherlock said, placing a box on John's lap.

The doctor looked confusedly at the rectangular box, his gaze drawn to the large Apple logo on the front.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Your phone was a bit... broken. So I bought you a new one."

"An iPhone?"

"You finally have a mobile device that works efficiently."

"What was wrong with my old phone?"

"It was slow and horribly ugly."

John frowned.

"Well... thanks. That's actually really nice of you."

He heard his stomach growl.

"God, I'm starving."

"Let's go downstairs, then," Sherlock said.

John found it a bit hard to stand after having spent a bit too long in bed, but he was able to make his own way down the stairs. With each step he took, he dreaded more and more the mess he would encounter. But when he entered the room, he found it surprisingly spotless. Everything was put back in its proper place and looked the way it had before Sherlock's drug-fuelled rage. The kitchen was in the same state.

"I would say Mrs. Hudson was responsible for this, but she's out of town," John said. "But that means that you actually cleaned up the flat."

Sherlock smiled.

"I also took care of the laundry you were so adamant needed put away. Surprised?"

John laughed a bit.

"I guess, yeah. I never thought I'd see the day."

Sherlock walked ahead of him into the kitchen and began filling up the tea kettle.

"I'm assuming you would like tea?"

John nodded.

"Oh God, yes."

He sat down at the kitchen table and inspected his hand. The bandages were nicely done.

"No concussion," Sherlock said. "Surprisingly enough."

John licked his lips, noticing just how dry they actually were.

"Yeah. I guess that's good."

Suddenly, Sherlock turned off the tap and stood still at the sink.

"Sherlock?" John questioned.

"John, I'm terribly sorry."

"Sherlock..."

"I didn't..." Sherlock sighed and turned around to face him. "I had no clue that the drug would have such an adverse effect on my... well, sanity. And my own stubbornness ended up injuring you, and I can't... there aren't words..."

John looked down at the table.

"Yeah... you went kind of crazy." He sighed. "But I won't hold that against you."

"But John-"

"I knew this was a bad idea, and I should have insisted that you not go through with it." He gave Sherlock a penetrating look. "Not that you aren't mostly to blame. Because you are. But I think you've learned your lesson, as harsh as it was."

Sherlock nodded.

"Indeed."

"And as long as I know that you won't even _think_ about doing this sort of crap again, I'll let it go."

Sherlock looked at him with an expression that seemed to resemble that of a guilty child.

"I promise you, John, this won't be happening again."

"Good." He leaned back in his chair. "I hope you at least got a chance to look at my notes."

Sherlock blushed.

"Yes." The detective cleared his throat. "So... my giggle..."

"Is about the cutest damn thing I've heard in a while," John said with a smirk.

Sherlock turned even redder.

"Hardly an observation that needed made."

"Are you kidding me? That giggle gave me life."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his posture.

"Yes, well... you talk in your sleep. Something about a love for puppies?"

"You can shut up now," John said.

"But you and I both know I won't."

John sighed.

"And that scares the hell out of me."

Sherlock grinned.

"Shall I put the kettle on?"

"Please. I'm dying of thirst."


	31. The Manila Folder

**Holy tea and biscuits. One chapter right after the other.**

**This will probably be my last update for a week or two, simply because my week-long break from school is nearly finished, and my time will, once again, be very limited. But here is this chapter for you!**

**I am embarrassed to say, but I cannot, for the life of me, find which reviewers left this prompt. Just know that I love you for leaving it! ;)**

* * *

"Boring," Sherlock remarked as he threw down the newspaper in his hand in the recycling bin.

"Dull," he said again, throwing another one in the bin.

"Predictable. " There went another.

"Obvious." And another.

John looked up from his phone with an incredibly detectable amount of irritation, his gaze shifted to the enormous pile of papers on the floor, then to the nearly overflowing bin beside his flatmate. He rolled his eyes and looked back at his screen.

"Argh!" Sherlock growled, making sure the sound was perfectly audible to John.

The doctor gave a frustrated sigh and threw his phone down on his lap.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

His flatmate brought his feet up to the seat cushion of the chair and wrapped his arms around his shins.

"I am cursed with perpetual ennui," Sherlock grumbled.

"And what do you expect me to do about it?" John asked. "You're the one who's been moaning like a child over newspapers all afternoon." He picked up one of them. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"Homicides never occur when convenient for me. Their spontaneity, though exciting, has proven to be simultaneously frustrating."

"You know, it's saying shit like that that makes the Yard wonder about your credibility," John warned the man.

The doctor picked up one of the papers from the bin beside Sherlock's chair and examined it.

"What were you doing reading a newspaper printed in 1982?" He turned to his flatmate. "How the hell did you manage to get a newspaper from 1982?"

Sherlock shrugged listlessly.

"Mrs. Hudson is quite fond of storing papers away. Nostalgia, I believe." He scoffed. "I hardly understand it myself."

"What have you been doing for the past hour?" John asked him. "I wouldn't know; I've been trying to tune out your incessant moaning."

Sherlock shot him a disgruntled look.

"My "incessant moaning", as you so delicately put it, is directly linked to my lack of entertainment in the form of a case. London's crime ring has been surprisingly inactive these past few weeks, and has consequently forced me to try to amuse myself with old articles in the paper addressing past crimes; most having gone unsolved by the police." The detective regressed to his distant gaze, his voice lowering to a mere mutter. "The ineptitude of the authorities never fails to astonish me."

John threw the newspaper back into the bin before he began to clean up the others strewn about.

"Alright," he said as he stood with a grunt, a large bundle of newspapers in his arms. "Would it make you feel better if we played a round of Cluedo?"

"A simple game that requires no thought. I solved its so-called "mystery" ages ago."

John went to argue this, but decided against getting involved in yet another impossible argument with his friend.

"Fine." He placed the papers in a neat stack on the desk. "Do you want to watch a movie? Maybe some Alfred Hitchcock?"

"His stories are over-dramatized and unrealistic."

John walked back over to his chair and sat down.

"Sherlock, I can't read your mind. I don't know what you want from me. You obviously aren't going to be on a case anytime soon, so do you want to grab some lunch? Go for a walk maybe? Talk?"

Sherlock lifted his chin up from his knee and raised his eyebrow confusedly.

"Is that what you people do when you're bored? Talk?" He laughed bitterly. "How tedious."

John bit his cheek, trying his hardest not to lash out at his flatmate. He knew the man wasn't necessarily accustomed to human nature; but that didn't make the statement any less infuriating.

"Look, if you're going to insist on being an arsehole all day, I'm not going to sit around and take it."

"Was I being rude?" Sherlock asked acerbically. "I hadn't noticed."

Just then, there came a knock at the door; a godsend to John. He was about to blow a fuse.

"Excuse me?" a man asked as he came through the door. "Is this a bad time?"

John stood up with a set smile plastered on his face.

"Certainly not. Please come in."

The man entered the room with a smile on his face.

"It's great to see you!" he said.

John immediately furrowed his brow in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh," the man said with an apologetic expression, "I'm deeply sorry. I suppose you wouldn't remember me purely based on looks; it _has _been over two decades since our days in secondary school." He grinned. "It's me, Percy."

John laughed.

"No… Tadpole Percy?"

The man chuckled.

"The one and only."

John grabbed Percy's hand and furiously shook it.

"How the hell are you, mate? It's been ages!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes angrily at both men before him.

Percy's mile suddenly disappeared, and he placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"Not well, John. Not well."

John's face dropped.

"Christ, what's happening?"

"Something that, from what I've seen on your blog, is within you and your friend's area of expertise."

Now Sherlock was listening.

"Is this Mister Holmes?" Percy asked, looking at the detective.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, standing up to meet the man's height (or, rather, exceed it).

"I am pleased and relieved to meet you, Sir," Percy said. "For my situation is a grave one."

John receded to his chair.

"Have a seat, mate. We're certainly willing to help."

With a small smile of gratitude, Percy sat down in the chair that Sherlock eagerly provided. Excitedly, the detective let his feet drop to the floor, and with a ghost of a smirk, steepled his hands beneath his chin and looked at the man with penetrating eyes.

"John," he said, not breaking his gaze, "Begin."

Tight-lipped, John drew out his notepad and pencil and turned to Percy.

"Okay; go ahead," he nodded at the man.

"Oh, where do I begin?" Percy said tiredly. "Well, let's see… about a month ago, I received a position as a secretary for James Holdhurst, a name I'm sure you're both familiar with, given the millions of pounds associated with it. It is, to say the least, a wonderful job; I have been provided with a steady income and nothing but kind treatment. And all of this is done in exchange for a minimal amount of work from me. For the first three weeks, I was enjoying the hell out of my work. And then, quite out of the blue, Mister Holdhurst came to me with an important task. Last Sunday, as I was preparing to go home, he handed me a manila folder holding a variety of papers, the contents of which I am uncertain of."

""Take this," he told me, "And burn it. Don't breathe a word of its existence to anyone. Don't even look inside out of sheer curiosity. Do away with it _immediately_.""

"As you can imagine, I was dreadfully curious. Why was he so eager to have the folder burned? I wanted nothing more than to take a look inside. But, being a loyal employee, I agreed to be prompt in taking care of it as soon as I arrived home. He seemed satisfied enough and tipped his hat to me before retiring for the evening. So, I gathered my things and went home."

"Upon my return to my flat, I was greeted jovially by my fiancée, Annie, and her brother, Joseph, who also happens to be my good friend. They asked me to join them for drinks and conversation, although I did have an important task to take care of. But, not wanting to seem suspicious, I agreed. But, I did take a moment to excuse myself and place my satchel with the folder in my desk, and I made sure to lock it. I then joined my fiancée and soon-to-be brother-in-law."

"Now, Joseph and I had recently discussed my new job at Holdhurst's mansion, and he was ecstatic that I had received such an honourable position. That evening, we, along with Annie, talked a bit more about it before moving on to other trivial topics. Now I, as you might deduce, Mister Holmes, am notorious for being a lightweight, as I can only take about three small drinks before I begin to feel the effects of inebriation. It was strange for me to feel so tipsy after only one, but I blamed that on a particularly long week. After a bit more conversation, I kissed Annie, said 'Goodnight' to Joseph who was staying at the flat for a few days, I returned to my room to get done the task which had earlier been assigned to me."

Percy took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief.

"I unlocked the desk and grabbed the folder, but I was disappointed to find that I had left my lighter in the kitchen and promptly called Annie to retrieve it for me. When I didn't receive a response, I assumed she had fallen asleep in her chair again, as I had noticed how tired she'd been when I left. I had no qualms about getting it myself, so that's exactly what I did. When I walked into the sitting room, I noticed that Annie was asleep in her chair, as I had suspected, and that under a pile of blankets lay Joseph. The two of them had had a bit too much, so I knew that they were bound to sleep heavily. I dug around the kitchen drawers for a bit, frustrated when I couldn't find the lighter right away. I began to check the cupboards when suddenly I heard my phone ring. The ringtone was assigned to my friend Jessica, so I decided I could ring her in the morning when I was a bit more coherent. I was satisfied with letting it go to voicemail, but then, someone hung up the phone. Given how long it had been ringing, I doubted Jessica had been the one to do so on the other end, and was alarmed when the only other possibility hit me; someone was in my room. On my way out of the kitchen, I tripped over one of the chairs and fell to the floor, hitting my head on the linoleum and falling unconscious. When I woke up, only about ten minutes had passed by. Frantically, I ran into my room, relieved when nothing seemed out of order; I was sure I had imagined the whole situation. But I was horrified to discover that the folder on my desk was _missing_. I was in a state of panic and shouted for Annie and for Joseph to "Help! There's been a burglary!" Though Annie remained fast asleep, Joseph managed to wake up, and he stumbled into my room. When I told him the awful news, he was most helpful in searching the place for clues. We checked the windows, but all were locked and remained intact. Besides, they were quite a distance from the ground. The front door was still locked and seemed relatively fine. We checked for footprints, fingerprints; any sort of clue. But we found nothing. Devastated, but at a loss, I decided that the best thing to do would be to sleep. I knew that phoning the police would be a rather bad idea, considering the great amount of trouble I would be in with Mister Holdhurst if they were to tell him what happened. But, after failing to do my own detective work and hiring a horrid private investigator, I knew drastic measures needed to be taken. Long story short, I found John's blog, and, relieved at my own good luck, came here. And now I am asking for your help. Both of your help."

John set his pad and pencil aside and crossed his arms.

"Christ," he exhaled.

Sherlock had closed his eyes as he listened to the story, and kept them closed for a few minutes after the full extent of it had been explained. Both Percy and John waited with bated breath for the detective to speak. When he finally did, he was up and about, putting his coat and scarf on as well as his shoes.

"Percy; you and John stay here," he commanded.

"You don't want me to come with you?" John asked.

"Normally I would, but this time I want you to stay here and keep Percy occupied. I have some errands to run."

And with a swish of his coat, he was out the door.

"Well," John cleared his throat. "Welcome to my life with Sherlock Holmes."

Percy's brow was knitted with concern.

"Are you sure he can solve this?"

John chuckled.

"Trust me, Percy; he knows what he's doing." The doctor got up from his chair to stretch his legs. "Would you like some tea?"

Percy nodded.

"That would be fantastic."

* * *

Sherlock returned that evening. By the way he had waltzed through the door, John knew he had a theory; and a good one at that.

He and the detective bode farewell to Percy, recommending that he spend a few nights at a hotel while they cleared things up. Before the young ma left, Sherlock got in one final question:

"Are Annie and Joseph at home?"

Percy shook his head, adamant that they were out with friends for the night, and probably wouldn't be home until very early in the morning.

And then he left.

John turned to Sherlock with a quizzical look.

"That was a weird question," he remarked.

"One with a valuable answer, John. We need to investigate his flat tonight."

"For clues?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I already took care of that." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Percy's fiancée looked as if she were going out while I was there, but I wasn't quite sure for how long. This is most convenient," he said, more to himself than to John.

John turned the detective to look him in the eye.

"Sherlock, are you suggesting that we break into Percy's flat tonight?"

"Well, when you phrase it like that…"

John sighed.

"Why, Sherlock?"

The detective smirked.

"Because I believe I might know where the folder has been hidden."

"In his _flat_?" John asked, feeling incredibly lost in his friend's logic.

"Yes, in his flat."

"Please explain."

Sherlock rolled his eye, obviously irritated by the fact that only he could understand his own reasoning.

"Didn't it strike you as strange that Joseph was roused so easily from his "deep sleep", when Percy explained just before the fact that Joseph had had far too much to drink?"

"So?"

"_So_, John, Percy reasoned that due to his heavy drinking, Joseph would have been sleeping heavily; far too heavily to be woken by shouting. Such was the case with Annie, if you recall."

"Okay…?"

"Allow me to bring up another point: Percy said that Joseph was particularly interested in his new position as James Holdhurst's secretary. Then, they proceeded to talk about the matter on the night that the folder went missing."

"That is a bit suspicious."

"Very much so, John. Not to mention the fact that while Joseph was staying with Percy and Annie, the folder went missing."

John shrugged.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean-"

"The fact that Joseph was forced to room with the couple is indicative of financial troubles, is it not?"

"I suppose, but-"

"And whatever was in the folder held something incriminating against Holdhurst, I'm assuming."

"I don't doubt that, but-"

"And blackmail is quite profitable."

John nodded, slightly slack-jawed.

"I… yeah, that makes sense." He brought a hand to his forehead. "But wait; didn't Percy say he saw Joseph asleep?"

Sherlock raised a finger to stop him.

"He said he saw him asleep beneath a pile of blankets. Isn't it possible that in his slightly drunken stupor, all that Percy saw was a pile of blankets?"

"Yeah…"

"My theory is this, John: After he saw that Annie had fallen asleep (mostly due to the sleeping pills he mixed in her drink), Joseph fixed the blankets so they appeared to have a sleeping body beneath them, and he proceeded to hide in the restroom, which I noticed was located in the hall leading to Percy's bedroom. Then, while Percy was in the kitchen (which was hardly anticipated), Joseph took his opportunity and snuck into the bedroom. He was hoping to find something he could use to wring money out of Holdhurst, knowing that Percy was bound to have _something_. As he was searching the room, Percy's phone went off. In a panic, Joseph declined the call, which turned out to be quite convenient for him. I'm sure you can probably understand the reason why." He tightened his scarf. "While Percy was unconscious, Joseph found the folder, and most likely took a look at the contents. However, he knew that he hadn't much time, given Percy's fear of an intruder. He needed to hide the folder; quickly."

"And where exactly did he hide it?" John asked, intrigued, yet sceptical.

"That's what I intend to find out." Sherlock grabbed John's gloves and tossed them to the doctor."

* * *

John looked up at the building in front of him and Sherlock, the task ahead of them daunting and seemingly pointless.

"Sherlock, how the hell are we supposed to get inside?" he asked.

"With the spare key I borrowed."

John narrowed his eyes.

""Borrowed"?"

"'Purloined', 'took'; however you would like to say it."

John sighed.

"Fine. Let's just get this over with." He took out his Browning. "I'll go first, since I'm armed."

Sherlock nodded at him, and they moved into the building, slowly making their way up the flights of stairs until they reached the third floor. Sherlock swiftly handed John the key, and the doctor unlocked the door to the flat.

It was dark inside; not pitch black, but dark enough that it obscured their vision.

"I'll look in Percy's bedroom," Sherlock whispered. "You examine the kitchen."

John quickly shoved his pocketknife into Sherlock's hand, wanting his friend to have some form of protection. He could almost hear the eye-roll the detective was most likely throwing his way. Soon enough, the two of them parted ways.

Slowly, John crept into the small kitchen. The counter was dimly lit by a small lamp on the kitchen table, the shadows it also produced ominous and incredibly dark, only placing emphasis on the total darkness of the flat.

Suddenly, as John turned around to face the opposite room, a figure jumped out of the shadows and threw a cloud of dust at him.

And it burned.

It _stung_.

John cried out and fell to the floor, muttering a choice few obscenities under his breath.

Whatever had been thrown at him, it wasn't anything good. His eyes were burning and stinging with pain, and every time he shut them, the pain only got worse.

"John!" he heard Sherlock cry out.

John still writhed on the floor, only barely catching the sounds of a scuffle. Then there was a yelp, and a body dropped to the floor beside him.

"John…" Sherlock said, breathlessly.

"Sherlock, I can't see," John groaned.

He felt a sick feeling in his stomach. God, was he blind?

A light abruptly shone above him.

"John, I believe you were attacked with a black egg; a-"

"I know what it is!" John shouted at him. "Jesus fuck!"

Sherlock put a reassuring hand on John's shoulder.

"I was right about Joseph," he said as he further examined John's eyes with panicked movements. "He's the one who attacked you. He also had a knife; nicked me on the hand."

"Great you could join the party," John growled. "How about you gouge your eyes out with a spoon? Then you'll really feel like one of the cool kids."

Sherlock gently took John's chin in his hand, tilting the doctor's head from side to side.

There was far too much blood.

"I… should I call an ambulance?" he asked, sounding genuinely clueless.

"You're the detective! You figure it out," John hissed.

God, he was in so much pain.

John actually didn't mean to be so harsh; he knew that given the situation they had gotten themselves in, calling an ambulance wasn't exactly ideal. But all he could see right now was red (literally), and his face felt as if it was on fire.

Thankfully, he heard Sherlock talking to someone on the phone. And honestly, he didn't give a damn who the hell it was.

* * *

John drummed his fingers on the hospital bed, keeping his lips tightly shut.

"One month? That doctor has no clue what he's talking about," Sherlock scoffed.

"First of all, shut up. Second of all, _shut up_," John said through gritted teeth.

"But-"

"I need more morphine," John breathed, hitting the button beside his bed.

Sherlock nervously chewed on his lip.

"I've already agreed to care for you while your eyes heal."

"I'm fine without help."

The detective crossed his arms.

"I honestly don't see why you're so cross with me."

John sighed and rested his hand on the bedrail.

"This isn't your fault. I know. I'm sorry. I'm just… I'm in a lot of pain right now, and I'm honestly feeling really stupid. I mean, the fact that I was taken down by a bloody egg is humiliating."

Sherlock shrugged.

"There is hardly any reason to be ashamed, John. I've found myself in far more ridiculous situations."

John snorted.

"I don't find that hard to believe."

"John?" the doctor heard Percy from the door.

"Hey, mate."

Percy stepped into the room with the guiltiest of expressions etched onto his face. John could sense the man's guilt. Sure enough, the poor fellow stepped forward:

"John, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

"Percy, it's not. You're fine." John paused. "Well, actually; are you?"

The man nodded eagerly.

"Praise the Lord. Of course, the news about Joseph was upsetting. I mean, blackmail is the lowest method of achieving financial success. Especially with Mister Holdhurst as the victim." He sighed. "And poor Annie is distraught. Her own brother; a criminal! It's been hard to completely wrap our heads around this." He smiled tiredly. "But Mister Holmes thankfully found the folder and promptly burned it for me."

"What was inside?" John asked.

"I didn't bother to look," Sherlock said. "Although I was curious, I wanted nothing more than to get rid of it. It caused enough trouble."

John laughed.

"You're the last person I'd expect to keep your nose out of other peoples' business."

Percy patted John's shoulder.

"For how long did the doctor say you need to keep the bandages on?" he asked.

"One month," John mumbled.

"Oh John…"

"You know, it's fine. Great, really. I've always wanted to not see." John shook his head. "Irritable. Sorry."

"No worries, John. You have full reason to be angry," Percy said.

John felt a pressure in his lap.

"What's this?" he asked, feeling around for it.

"Care package," Percy said. "I know nothing can ever express to you how both sorry and grateful I am. But hopefully you and Sherlock can make use of what I've left you."

John heard the man's phone buzz.

"Damn. I ought to go now. Annie's waiting for me in a cab outside. Her parents have come in from Barcelona because of Joseph's imprisonment, and they're waiting for us at the airport."

"Go on," John told him.

"Get well soon!" Percy said.

And he left the room.

"What did he leave us?" John asked Sherlock. "I can't see shit."

Sherlock took a quick glance at the basket. All of its contents were quite standard for a gift basket.

"Soap, snacks, etcetera, etcetera," he listed without much interest.

"That was nice of him," John remarked.

"Hardly a worthy compensation for the end result of this case."

John sighed and leaned back in bed.

"Where was the folder, anyway?"

"Beneath the floorboards of Percy's bedroom. Joseph had already snatched it before we entered the flat."

John chuckled dryly.

"Of course he did."

"Knock knock!" Lestrade's gruff voice echoed as he rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

The detective inspector walked into the room and shook his head when he saw John.

"Jesus Christ, mate," he said. "How bad is it?"

John shrugged.

"I only have to spend about a month in this bloody bandages. Then I'll be as right as rain."

"Why is it that you always seem to be the one who gets the short end of the stick?" Lestrade tutted wanly.

John, to the best of his ability, gave the inspector a deadpan look.

"Because my arms aren't long enough to grab more of it."

"I hope dickhead over there is more than willing to help you out."

Sherlock frowned at the inspector.

"You lack an alarming amount of faith in me, Lestrade."

"He's right to," Donovan said from behind Lestrade.

John groaned internally.

"Sargent Donovan; it's been ages," he greeted her, making no effort to cover up his displeasure.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," Donovan said with an equal amount of distaste.

She turned her attention to Sherlock.

"The Freak's looking worse than you are, Doctor. How long's it been since his last fix?" she sneered.

"Donovan…" Lestrade warned her.

"Donovan, do you honestly think that referencing my past drug addiction will remotely affect me?" Sherlock said.

"No. Which only proves that you're a bloody psychopath."

"Sociopath. How many times must I clarify this for you?" Sherlock hissed at her.

"As long as you keep lying to yourself, Freak. And to your boyfriend."

John audibly growled.

"You know, Donovan," he started, his tone already incredibly biting, "I think I've developed my own theory explaining why you're such a raging bitch all the time."

The room went silent. And, though John couldn't see the various expressions on the faces of the other occupants, he could sense the tension. Nevertheless, he continued.

"You resent the fact that, due to sheer boredom with your own life, you even _once_ let Anderson crawl inside of you; let alone twice, maybe three times; because now whenever you look in the mirror, all you can see is a whore staring back at you; and it disgusts you. So now, in order to retain what little dignity you have left, you've decided to stop shagging Anderson and flirting with your boss and have resorted instead to drowning your emotions in decaf coffee and cheap doughnuts from the shop down the street. Am I right or am I wrong?"

The tension in the room was so sweet and satisfying at this point that John could have spread it like jam on his biscuits. So tangy and delicious.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the flabbergasted expressions on both Lestrade's and Donovan's faces. To see such shock was satisfying to say the least.

"I think, ah… I think we'll come back when you're feeling better…" Lestrade said to John. "Come on, Donovan."

The young lieutenant was so shocked that all she could do was shuffle out of the room. With a pained look, Lestrade followed behind her, shutting the door as they both left.

"You think I said too much?" John asked sarcastically.

Sherlock licked his lips with satisfaction.

"I'm the wrong person to consult on that matter."

"God, she's a bitch, though. It felt good."

"I concur," Sherlock said. "That was certainly amusing."

* * *

"John, don't be stubborn."

"Look who's talking."

"Allow me to-"

"I've got it!"

John felt around for the banister of the stairs of 221B, shakily resting his hand upon it when he located it. He lifted his right leg cautiously and placed it on the bottom step. Then he proceeded to climb to the next one and then the next one. He could hear Sherlock slowly trailing behind him, lording over him like a protective mother. But this state that his flatmate was in did prove to be useful when he got a bit too confident and missed a step, causing him to fall backwards, yet safely into the arms of his friend.

"Are you quite finished showing off?" Sherlock asked him.

John tightened his lips in frustration and reluctantly nodded.

"Good."

And, though it took a bit of time, Sherlock had helped him upstairs and into the flat.

John managed to find his own way to his chair, knowing the flat like the back of his hand, only slightly bumping his hip against the side table next to it.

"It is quite close to the dinner hour, John," Sherlock said from the kitchen. "I doubt you want to walk to Angelo's?"

John shook his head.

"I don't really care what we eat tonight. I'm perfectly fine with nothing, if that's what you want."

Sherlock peeked his head into the sitting room.

"I could put the kettle on."

"You know, maybe later. Right now, I just want to sit here and…" John sighed. "Nap, I guess. That's about all I can do right now."

Sherlock walked in and sat down in his own chair.

"Such talk is for the weak-minded and hopeless, John. You're without your sight for a month. Not for a lifetime."

"I know, I know. It's just so goddamned inconvenient. Besides, the amount of work I'm leaving my co-workers with at the clinic…"

"That is not any of your concern, John. What happened was out of your control, and therefore leaves us with no choice but to accept the temporary consequences and carry on with our lives as we always have."

"Right. Fine," John grumbled. "So, you find another case to work on, and I'll sit here in my chair and waste away until I can take off these bandages. Sounds like a plan."

"You won't 'waste away', John. Don't be so dramatic."

"Well what else _can_ I do? I can't update my blog, I can't read the paper or any of my novels, I can't watch telly, I can't go to work right now, and I sure as hell can't work on a case with you."

Sherlock crossed his legs.

"We could… talk."

John was rather bemused by this suggestion.

"I thought talking was tedious."

"Yes, but sitting here and succumbing to boredom is no better."

"And what do you suggest we 'talk' about, Mister Anti-Social?" John asked with a wry smirk.

Sherlock stood and walked over to the desk.

"Perhaps if I read aloud the articles in these papers," he said as he placed a hand on the stack of them, "We could discuss them together?"

"My deduction training wheels?" John snorted.

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's an idea."

"Okay," John laughed. "Let's do it. But if you get smart with me, I'll do to you what I did to Donovan."

"Destroy my self-esteem and send me out the door with my tail between my legs?"

John grinned.

"And whimpering like a dog."


	32. A Cutthroat Operation

**Thanks to Zealister for the prompt!**

* * *

John rested his chin on his hand, his eyelids slowly drooping, the events of that particular day having caught up with him. So many suspects, so many murders, so little time...

"John!" Sherlock barked at him.

"Wha...? Yeah, m'wake. What is it?" John said, fumbling over his words as he tried to perk himself up a bit.

"The doctor, John."

"What?"

"He did it."

"The murders?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What has been the subject of most of our conversations throughout the past few weeks?"

John nodded.

"Right. Sorry."

"But wait," Lestrade said, holding up a finger to bring the discussion to a halt. "This man's a doctor. He heals people, doesn't he?"

Sherlock looked at the detective inspector, annoyance clearly etched into his expression.

"That typically does fit the job description, yes. What is your point exactly? That people who are meant to heal can't possibly be capable of murder?"

Lestrade pondered this for a moment.

"I mean, it just can't be right. He's just... I don't know. Are you sure?"

John rubbed his eyes.

"It doesn't matter what a person's job is, Greg. Anyone can be capable of anything, if you think about it. And doctors would be especially skilled at killing someone. Trust me, I know; I am one, after all." He yawned and stretched. "We know every vein, artery, and capillary in the human body. We can name every bone and muscle without a second thought. We know how every organ works. I could on and on." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, my point is, we know exactly how to cause as much pain as possible. So it wouldn't surprise me if Sherlock was right and that this doctor is responsible for all of these horrible killings. In fact, I'm sure he's right. Hell, he almost always is."

Both Lestrade and Sherlock stared for a moment at the doctor.

"Right, erm..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "What he said. We really should be getting to the hospital."

John nodded.

"Sure. Can we grab some coffee on the way?"

Lestrade shook his head to snap out of his stupor.

"I, um... I have to finish some stuff up here. I'll grab some for you on my way to meet you."

John smiled.

"Thanks."

With one last yawn, he went out the door.

"Well that was frightening," Lestrade mumbled. "Didn't know he could think like that."

"That's what makes you so transparent, Lestrade," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "All you wish to see in people is good. You never stop to think that perhaps they are capable of great evil."

"But not John..."

"As he said before: 'Anyone is capable of anything'. And I've learned that in John Watson's case, that is most certainly true." Sherlock chuckled. "And you worry about me."

The detective then left Lestrade with his own stupefied thoughts.

* * *

John and Sherlock sat in comfortable silence for a while, the doctor contentedly napping while the detective busied himself with his phone and his mind palace. After about half an hour, John awoke with a yawn.

"Awake, I see," Sherlock remarked as he pocketed his phone.

"Yeah," John grunted. "How far along are we?"

"Nearly there. Ealing Hospital is an unfortunate distance from the Yard."

"Good," John said with another yawn.

"I do believe you frightened Lestrade," Sherlock smirked.

John looked over at the detective with a confused expression.

"How so?"

"Apparently, your dramatically worded spiel regarding this doctor we're after awoke the inspector to the reality that you could indeed be a frightening killer. That is, if you chose to go down such a path."

John could barely stifle his laughter.

"You're kidding. Me? A killer?"

"You've made quite clear to me your achievements in Afghanistan."

The smile playing on John's face abruptly disappeared.

"They're hardly achievements."

Sherlock brushed him off.

"My point still stands true."

"I'd never kill for the hell of it," John argued.

"I never suggested that you were at risk of doing so. I was simply explaining to you why Lestrade was taken aback by your impressive show of medical knowledge."

The doctor shook his head with some disbelief.

"Well... alright then. I guess I'm flattered...?"

"I would be. Not everyone is capable of psychopathy."

"Here you are," the cabbie suddenly interjected. "That'll be fifty pounds."

John sat and waited for the fare to be paid, but was made irate when his flatmate nudged him in the side.

Sighing, John took out his wallet and paid the cabbie who smiled and nodded a thanks.

After having sat in that warm cab for about forty minutes, John was shocked by the sudden blast of cold air in his face when he stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Christ," he muttered, rubbing his arms in an attempt to keep his circulation running effectively.

Sherlock glanced over at his shivering companion and, with an eye-roll, dug the man's gloves out of his pocket.

"Here," he said, tossing them at the doctor.

John, with his relatively quick reflexes, caught the gloves as they sailed through the air. He looked at them quizzically.

"You always forget them," Sherlock pointed out without so much as batting an eye before walking towards the entrance.

John looked down at his gloves, his confusion morphing into slight bemusement. He quickly slipped then on and jogged after his flatmate.

By the time John had caught up with the detective, the both of them were already inside walking to the front desk. A woman with obviously dyed red hair and pink acrylic nails sat facing the computer, gnawing away at a pencil. By the look on Sherlock's face, John could tell the man was having a field day deducing her.

John cleared his throat, prompting the woman to look up and bring her hand holding the pencil down to the table.

"Can I help you?" she asked, putting on the notorious 'I'm-tired-and-irritated-and-you're-the-last-thing-I-wanted-to-see' bitch-face that nurses were famous for pulling. That was the face of a woman who had not had enough coffee that day.

John, being experienced with this sort of person, put on a smile.

"Sorry to bother you," he apologised, "But my friend and I are looking for someone. A doctor who works here at your hospital."

"Doctor who?" the woman asked.

John resisted the urge to comment on her particular phrasing of that question.

"A surgeon; Doctor Carson."

"Do you have an appointment?" the nurse asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

"No, but we-"

"If you don't have an appointment, I'm not letting you back to see him. Come back when you need a kidney or something."

Sherlock pushed John aside and placed his hands on the surface of the desk, firmly gripping the edge.

"Your failed attempt at reawakening you sex life last night oughtn't have any effect on the manner in which you treat those who walk in here asking for assistance. This is a hospital, and your painfully simplistic job is to be helpful. And we're looking for help."

The nurse looked shocked.

"How did you know-"

"People have died; I have no time to stand here and tediously list off the number of clues you've left on yourself and your desk indicating your depression and irritation resulting from an unsuccessful date."

At this point, a few more staff members had stopped to watch the altercation.

"Who the hell are you?" the woman asked as she stood up from her chair, shaking with pent-up anger.

Sherlock dug out Lestrade's badge from his coat pocket and showed it to the woman.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Now, I suggest you show my partner and I to Doctor Carson; you're interfering with an investigation."

With tight lips and teary eyes, the nurse slowly stepped around to the front of the desk.

"Right this way, Detective," she said, nervously shuffling down the hallway.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Do you think you could have been a little bit gentler?" John whispered to his flatmate as the two of them followed the young woman.

"Three men and women were found mutilated in various isolated locations, most of their organs and a number of their limbs stolen from them. Do you really believe that we can afford 'gentle'?" Sherlock argued.

"Butchered, is the way I'd put it," John said, a chill running down his spine.

But Sherlock was right. Now was no time for feelings to be spared.

After standing in an elevator for a few minutes and waiting for it to go up to its requested floor, they followed the nurse down another hall until they reached Carson's office.

"Doctor Carson?" the nurse called as she stepped into the door. "There are two policemen who need to see you."

Sherlock and John caught up with the woman, getting a chance to look at the doctor who they had seen only the day prior.

He cautiously stood up from his chair.

"I see." He looked to the nurse. "Diane? Please leave."

The woman (now identified as 'Diane') nodded at Doctor Carson and turned around, shooting Sherlock and John a sceptical look before walking out.

"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson," Carson acknowledged. "To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?"

"I believe you know," Sherlock said.

Carson remained frighteningly calm.

"Ah. The murders," He scratched his beard and grabbed his spectacles, gently placing them on his hawk-like nose. "Come. Walk with me and we'll talk."

He pushed his way between Sherlock and John and, after exchanging wary looks, they followed him out.

A few nurses bustled by with clipboards and medical trays as the three of them walked through the hallway.

"Now, tell me Sir; why have you chosen to visit me once more? And this time, at my place of business?"

"To further question you on the case," Sherlock said.

"But have you not already gotten from me all I had to offer?"

"It would seem that I haven't."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Carson opened the doors to the trauma operating room and walked over to the sterilising station, beginning to wash his hands.

"Doctor Carson," John said, "We have reason to believe that you're the one behind these murders."

Carson continued to scrub.

"Is that so? Ah well."

"You seem to be taking this news rather well," Sherlock observed, narrowing his eyes as he did so.

"Well, why would I panic? You are right, after all. If I were innocent, I would be rather insistent on presenting alibis."

He turned off the tap and shook his hands free of stray droplets of water before taking a hand-towel and taking care of the rest of the dampness.

"Why bother lying to us in the first place?" Sherlock asked, not really sure how else to respond to the unsettling calm of the situation.

"To test you," the doctor said as he threw aside the towel. "To see if you're as good as you claim you are."

"And did I pass your little test?" Sherlock sneered.

"Well, you obviously caught onto me. So I'd say you did rather well. I am curious, though; were you stalling for time? Or did you truly not know who was behind the killings?"

"More to the point; will you wait a moment for the lovely Detective Inspector to drop by and handcuff you?"

"And prevent me from carrying out the work I love to do? Absolutely not."

"Butchering people? That's what you like doing?" John inquired.

"Surgery. I do enjoy saving lives during office hours, but sometimes on the weekends I feel a bit... restrained; out of practice. All I need to sate my desire to dissect is a quick trip out to the local pub or park, make conversation with a nice man or woman and bring them home for drinks, and... well, the rest is very clear."

"Interesting," Sherlock remarked.

John gave the detective a look of pure confusion and disbelief.

"It seems your companion thinks otherwise," Carson said as he looked at John. "He might be an ex-soldier, but he still appears to be quite a delicate thing, doesn't he? So vulnerable and sensitive."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I wouldn't make such comments in my presence."

"It's a simple observation." Carson strode over to John, inspecting him. "You know, Doctor Watson, if you hadn't such ladylike sensibilities, you'd make a fine partner."

John wrinkled his nose in distaste and anger.

"Of course, you are short in stature, but you make up for that with your intelligence and physical strength. Honestly, it's rather a shame you didn't run into me first." He smiled at the shorter man. "Alas, chance is a cruel mistress. You really could have been fantastic."

"I'll take being sensitive and selfless over being a bloody psychopath any day."

"And who says I'm not selfless? I save lives."

"Yeah, to ward off your lust for blood."

"Anatomical research," Carson corrected. "And I must say, I make a considerable amount of money doing it on the weekends."

"Selling arms online. Crime really has reached a new low," John muttered.

"If that's truly how you see it, I'm left to assume you've been living under a rock for years. How dusty is your flat?"

Sherlock looked down at his phone.

"Inspector Lestrade is five minutes from our current location," he said. "So I suggest you get done with whatever it is you plan on doing."

"An excellent idea, Mister Holmes." Carson said. "Now, since I'm going to be arrested anyway, I've decided to make my last few moments of freedom exciting." He looked at John again, making Sherlock stiffen. "It's fortunate I have no patients to tend to now. A slow evening is always beneficial when I have mischief planned."

"Menacing," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"You're the last person I'd expect to act so flippantly, Mister Holmes." Carson turned his back to both him and John as he walked over to the tray of medical tools next to the operating table. "You are more than familiar with human anatomy, I'm sure, Doctor Watson."

"I should hope so," John retorted.

"Then I'm sure you're aware of the most vulnerable veins in the body."

"Of course."

"Statistically, what is the most vulnerable vein?"

John frowned.

"Why?"

"Humour me."

"The jugular. And again I'll ask: why?"

"Are you fully aware of the purpose it serves?"

"That's a stupid question," John bit. "Why are you asking?"

"John..." Sherlock warned him.

The warning seemed to go unheeded.

"It's always more fun to self-diagnose an injury, is it not? Of course, it makes the dying experience a bit more realistic and hopeless. But at least you can occupy your brain with more interesting thoughts than last-minute regrets."

"Excuse me?"

"John!" Sherlock shouted, trying in vain to save his companion from the inevitable.

John saw the scalpel come swinging, backhanded, right in his direction. He only managed to take a half step back before he felt its tip slice into the delicate skin on his neck, immediately drawing an incredible amount of blood. He brought his gloved hand up to his throat, clutching at the deep cut disfiguring his once smooth skin. Stumbling backwards, he felt his back collide with the wall and he slid down to the floor. He immediately began choking, the words 'severed trachea' ringing mercilessly in his head.

Through greying vision he saw his flatmate shoot him a more than concerned glance and watched as Doctor Carson fled the room, a devilish grin on his face. Sherlock reached out to John, calling his name, but John simply waved him off with what little energy he had remaining as if to say, "Go on, I'll be fine."

Reluctantly, Sherlock broke chase, but not before looking at John with an expression that asserted that he would return.

John clasped both of his hands around his throat, feeling blood bubble up at his lips. He could only barely get oxygen into his deprived lungs; obviously his trachea hadn't been fatally severed. But if he was going to survive, he needed medical attention. Down the hall he heard shouts from his flatmate, calling for security and Lestrade and, seemingly more important to the man, a doctor to go tend to John.

"He's dying! Someone help him!" John heard the detective cry.

Or at least he _thought _he heard the detective cry. At this point he wasn't really sure; the room was beginning to turn into nothing more than a washed out swirl of grey and white. Shakily, he lifted a hand in front of his face, barely making it out through his blurred vision, and he could swear his glove was dripping in red.

As he felt his lids begin to droop, he found a pair of foreign hands grabbing his shoulders, their owner shouting various commands to those outside. John heard frantic footsteps come trampling into the room (two more people, if he could actually trust his reasoning), and more hands were lifting him up and carrying him over to the operating table.

Convenience was a blessing.

He was aware of being gently lowered down and having his other hand pried away from his throat, the strange voices above him beginning to fade out in his ears.

But before he fell unconscious, John recognised the feeling of a hand slipping into his own, bloody, gloved one, squeezing it so tightly that he feared his bones would shatter. And then, he heard echoing throughout the room the sound of Sherlock, furious and so concerned at the same time, shouting his name, trying to will him back to the world of the living.

* * *

Sherlock had been roughly thrown out of the room, his body and overbearing nature apparently taking up too much of the doctors' space and energy. He relentlessly paced back and forth (as that seemed to be the only thing he could do at the present moment) in front of the doors, having at least won the right to not have to be forced back into the waiting room. Suddenly from down the hall came Lestrade, looking as dazed and as tired as ever. As soon as the inspector spotted Sherlock, he marched his way towards him and pulled him away from the door.

"Sherlock," he whispered harshly, "What the hell is happening?"

Given the firmness of the man's brow and the tightness of his lips, Sherlock could tell that he was thinking the worst.

"He slit John's throat with a scalpel," Sherlock told him, his voice quavering.

Lestrade exhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Bloody hell!" he cried out, kicking the base of the wall with an extreme amount of force. "I knew I shouldn't have let you two get a head start!"

Sherlock looked shamefully at his feet.

"I didn't notice it quickly enough."

"One of you always manages to get yourselves banged up, and then I have to come to the bloody rescue!" Lestrade growled.

He relaxed his shoulders and sighed.

"God, you two can't keep doing this kind of thing to me."

Sherlock looked at him with a lost look in his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean having these brushes with death. You and John both do it way too much, and it scares the hell out of me every time. You just..."

He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gripped it tightly.

"You need to be more careful. Both of you; you need to keep a closer eye on each other. I know you both have this notion that you're independent and don't need a babysitter, but if I had a penny for each time I had to come here and worry whether or not one of you was going to make it out of surgery alive..."

Sherlock was clueless as to how to handle this. Lestrade was obviously emotionally worn, but emotions weren't exactly in Sherlock's wheelhouse. Awkwardly, Sherlock patted the hand on his shoulder.

"Don't try being sentimental," Lestrade said with a sniff. "You're only going to piss me off."

He stood up straight and let his hands come to his sides.

"What did they say?" he asked the detective.

Sherlock, easily switching gears, looked back at the room with a longing expression.

"They threw me out, so I've absolutely no idea."

"Christ, what did you do to get yourself thrown out?" Lestrade asked. He shook his head. "You know what? Never mind. Stupid question." Looking over at the doors as well, he let himself take a moment to breathe before speaking again. "Look, Sherlock, you aren't helping things by lording over the doctors in there, even if they did manage to put a door in between you and them. Why don't we both go into the waiting room and sit down? Maybe calm our nerves?" With a sick stomach, Lestrade added: "I brought coffee."

And for once, Sherlock actually agreed with the Inspector.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the floor, his head held between his hands as he relived what had just happened.

_Carson grabbed a scalpel, the handle well concealed within his grip until he prepared to attack John. I warned John. Didn't I? Yes. I shouted his name. John, John, John... He stepped back. I saw that he stepped back. He must have stepped back far enough for the scalpel to avoid his jugular and carotid... right? He remained conscious long enough to suggest-_

"Sherlock!" Lestrade whispered, shaking the detective out of his stupor.

Sherlock dazedly straightened up to look at the inspector.

"What?"

"John's in the ICU, mate. You ought to go home."

"But-"

"You're not family, and I won't have you harassing the nurses and doctors about whatever bloody entitlement you think you have. Now, go home, get some sleep, have some dinner; I'll give you a call when he's out of the woods."

Sherlock stayed seated.

"What if, while I'm gone, he does something as irresponsible as die?"

"He won't Sherlock. He's going to be fine. I just finished talking to the doctor, and she said John will most likely make a full recovery. He just needs a ventilator for a while."

"'Most likely', Lestrade; that leaves room for unplanned tragedy. I can't have that."

"Sherlock, are you honestly going to make me drag you back to your flat myself?"

Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly and burrowed himself further into his chair.

"I'm perfectly content staying the night here," he insisted. "Besides, sleeping is for the weaker-willed individual."

"Sherlock, he'll probably be able to have visitors sooner rather than later; it's really a pretty mild injury-"

"'Mild'? His throat was _slit_."

"But the scalpel missed any important veins and arteries; he stepped back just in time, apparently."

Sherlock could hardly hold back a sigh of relief.

_Right as usual._

"I will return to the flat, Lestrade," he finally agreed, "But only if you instruct the doctors to, upon John's return to consciousness, inform him of my impending visit. The man is quite easily made lonely, especially in such a dreadful establishment," Sherlock said.

The inspector nodded.

"I can do that."

"Then, in order to avoid the inevitable pestering that would come with my disobedience, I shall depart." Sherlock stood up and straightened his scarf. "But I expect a prompt text when you receive news of John's improving condition."

"He's going to be fine, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed. "For the last damn time."

"Such a finite conclusion, unintentionally leaving an alarming amount of wiggle-room for the unexpected..."

"Just go," Lestrade told him.

And so Sherlock did, against his better judgment.

X

John sat up in bed, gently palpitating the sutures on his neck. It was strange to think that they were holding him together, like a rag doll with the stuffing overflowing.

The area was still quite tender.

"Jesus, John, you're worse than your flatmate," Lestrade said. "Looks like his stubbornness has rubbed off on you."

John bit his lip and brought his hand down to his side.

"How is Sherlock?" he asked, speaking at as low a volume as he could possibly manage; every time he tried using his vocal chords, he felt a sting of pain from his neck wound. Goddamn trachea.

"Physically, he's alright. Luckily I arrived just as Carson was making a run for it. Caught him on the landing of the stairs," Lestrade seemed to boast. "Sherlock didn't really stop to explain anything to me. He was too worried about you."

John raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Don't act surprised. You know just how much he cares about you. I mean, he might be a sociopath, but I've never seen someone capable of feeling normal emotions look so panicked before."

John seemed to blush as he looked down at his sheets.

"John, you scared the hell out of the both of us. I mean, once I had a good idea of what the prognosis was I was a bit less worried, but that doesn't change the fact that you could have died."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, but you could've." The inspector sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sherlock couldn't shake that thought from his head."

"Where is he?" John asked.

"Back at your flat. But that's only because I made him. If I hadn't insisted, there's no doubt in my mind that he would've camped out here until he could see you."

"I would have," Sherlock suddenly said from the doorway, frightening both Lestrade and John.

"Forgot to tell you, John; he's coming to see you," Leatrade said with a laugh.

"Well, you've always been notorious for poor planning," Sherlock quipped as he walked over to John.

The inspector simply rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

"Hey," John whispered with a small smile. He made a great effort to conceal the stitches with his hand, but all in vain when Sherlock gently ushered him to take it away by touching it.

The detective's face hardened into an awkward mixture of anger and concern when he saw the sutures.

"Relax," John assured him. "There'll be scarring, but that's all."

"Stop assessing the severity of your injury. It only allows you to use your voice and cause you further pain and distress."

"Sherl-"

"Shut up." Sherlock traced the pattern of the stitches with his slender, bony fingers, letting out a short breath that carried the word 'Fascinating' with it.

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Should I give you two some privacy?"

Before John could decline the offer, Sherlock was adamantly nodding his head.

And so the two of them were left alone.

John sat there uncomfortably while Sherlock scrutinised his neck wound, most likely sizing up the extent of the damage. The doctor noticed as his flatmate's face became whiter and whiter the more he looked.

"The scalpel narrowly missed cutting into your jugular," the detective stated.

John shrugged.

"Guess you warned me in time."

"A second too late. If I had insisted-"

"Sherlock, don't do this."

Sherlock's eyes still remained locked on the wound, as if he were catatonic.

"Sherlock, please stop."

"What?"

"Kicking yourself. It's not your fault. Nothing about this is your fault." John swallowed painfully. "I shouldn't have to tell you this. You're the genius."

"Certainly I played a part-"

"Stop it. Seriously; it's fine. It's all fine." John closed his eyes. "Can you stop making me speak now? I just want to rest."

Sherlock nodded.

"I... of course." He shifted his feet. "Would you prefer it if I left?"

John shook his head.

"Don't have to."

"Then I'll stay."

"Y'might get bored."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and shook it in the air to draw attention to it.

"I've found a case. Perhaps you'd like to assist me?"

John chuckled tiredly.

"Give me an hour to nap. Then we'll talk."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Very well." He pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. "Would you like me to wake you?"

"Absolutely not."

"As you wish." Sherlock pulled up the case details on his phone. "Rest well, John. I would prefer it if you were well again sooner rather than later."

It only took three minutes and forty-eight seconds for John to fall asleep; Sherlock counted.

The detective looked up from his phone and gently placed it back in his pocket, returning his attention to the stitches on John's neck; they made his stomach turn. Perhaps it was the fact that he knew how close John had come to dying; how close he himself had come to being alone again.

But looking at the way John's chest rhythmically rose and fell brought him relief; it was a small sign of life, and therefore so often taken for granted. But in that moment, it meant the world. Because it meant that John was still alive. And that's all that mattered to Sherlock.

After all, a life without his blogger was a life he didn't wish to live.


	33. Walk Through the Fire

**It is nearing Christmas, my sweeties! And that means I have a long vacation. And that, in turn, means more chapters! Hurrah!**

**Speaking of the holiday season, I'm working on a Christmas-themed chapter that ought to satiate your appetite for holiday cheer and your thirst for John whump; so you can look forward to that.**

**Aaaaanyway... here is another chapter for everyone! It has been a while, so my writing skills might have rusted a bit. But oh well.**

**Thanks to CC for the prompt.**

* * *

Lestrade drove his squad car, lights and sirens blaring as he sped down the country road, two other cars following suit.

"Sherlock, you're sure about this?" he asked the detective in the back seat.

"Now isn't the time to question my reliability, Lestrade. I've proven myself trustworthy before; why would the case be different now?"

"But these are kids' lives on the line..."

"Yes, and my want to rescue the both of them is just as great as yours. Now shut up and drive."

John, who happened to be seated in the passenger's seat, sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose, overwhelmed by every aspect of the situation.

"Jesus, this is insane," he breathed.

"It's moronic is what it is," Sherlock scoffed.

"'Moronic'?" Lestrade repeated. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Successfully earning ransom money via kidnapping is nearly impossible after leaving so much incriminating evidence behind. And these two men have certainly left more than enough evidence for me to work with; it's insulting to my intellect. "

"Seriously?" Lestrade exclaimed. "That's all you're worried about?"

"Greg," John stopped the inspector, "Don't. It's fine."

Lestrade shot John a doubtful look, but merely sighed.

"Okay."

And he kept on driving. Suddenly, Sherlock spoke out, startling him.

"Pull over."

"Christ," the inspector muttered as he jerked the steering wheel over to the side of the road, bringing the car to a stop, thanking the stars that they were located in the rural countryside. "We aren't even there yet!"

"No, but they'll be alarmed if we park directly in front of the house." Sherlock began to open the door. "We walk from here."

Now even John was beginning to question his flatmate. "Hold on; we're about a twenty minute's walk away," he argued.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"Problem?"

Lestrade and John exchanged a weary look and reluctantly climbed out of the car. As they and Sherlock shut the doors, all three immediately began to walk down the long stretch of road. Lestrade looked over his shoulders at the two other squad cars stopped behind his own. Donovan had stepped out and into the road, placing her hands on her hips, completely confused and irritated.

"Just wait!" Greg shouted at her.

The exasperated lieutenant threw her hands up in the air before bending down to talk to her comrades.

"I pray you both are armed," Sherlock said, walking ahead of his companions.

"Yep," the two of them answered simultaneously.

"Very good. John, you'll lead us in, due to the fact that you're a better shot."

"Right," the doctor nodded.

"I'll follow behind him. Lestrade; you'll serve as the rear."

The inspector seemed to resent this decision.

"Fine," he sighed.

"Christ, these poor kids are probably scared to death," John said.

Sherlock scoffed.

"Obviously. They've been held hostage for four days."

"Leave it to you to make conversation impossible," Lestrade grumbled.

The detective remained silent.

The long walk seemed to pass by rather quickly, for the three men had arrived at the abandoned house before they even knew it.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, motioning to his flatmate to come forward, the doctor gladly obliging.

"Be careful," Lestrade said from behind.

Sherlock promptly shushed him.

In a line, the three of them approached the front porch of the rickety shack, the stairs creaking beneath them as they ascended. Cautiously, John tried the door handle, pleased when he found that it easily gave way, allowing him to open the door and give him and his comrades access to the inside. The hinges were incredibly rusty, and they crunched and creaked as the doctor pushed the door they were holding open, causing the man to flinch.

Slowly, he, Sherlock, and Lestrade advanced further into the house, the floorboards even creakier than the stairs.

"Cellar," Sherlock suddenly whispered.

"What?" John asked.

"The door in the stairs," he motioned to the unstable staircase. "They should lead to a cellar."

John nodded and continued forward, placing a wary hand on the gun in his pants. When he approached the cellar door, he found himself rather irritated when the handle didn't budge it open.

"Dammit," he swore.

Suddenly, there came the cries of a little boy.

"Let us go, please!"

He sounded young, but not too much so. Well, obviously he was nine (making him the elder), given the expository information on him and his brother Sherlock and John had received.

"Thomas?" Lestrade yelled. "It's alright! Help is here!"

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed.

"Sherlock, the lock's been busted," John said.

The detective tensed.

"They anticipated our arrival then."

"What?"

Sherlock took a moment to think, looking around him. His eyes fell upon a trail of his and his companions' shoe prints, left behind due to some sort of wet substance.

He quickly yanked his left shoe off and examined the bottom.

"Petrol..." he whispered.

His mind was attacked with the reality of the situation.

"It's a trap!" he exclaimed.

As if on cue, the area around the three men went up in flames.

"Christ!" Lestrade yelled.

The two boys downstairs began wailing.

"Step aside!" John commanded, his suddenly gruff voice shocking his friends into submission.

The heat of the fire beat mercilessly at the doctor's back as he braces himself, and he could already feel the smoke infiltrating his lungs.

He threw himself against the door once, pain erupting throughout his shoulder as it easily gave way under his weight. He managed to stop himself from hurdling down the stairs and descended to the cellar, quickly followed by Sherlock and Lestrade who were both coughing.

"I'll get them untied!" John yelled as he hacked. He could barely hear himself over the roar of the fire upstairs.

He rushed over to the crying children.

"You're alright boys," he assured them. "You're going to be alright."

The bonds around the children's wrists came undone as soon as John had worked through the knots.

Quickly, John took their hands and pushed them towards Sherlock and Lestrade, who were both covering their noses and mouths with their sleeves.

"Get them out of here!" he yelled.

Sherlock gathered one of the young boys in his arms while Lestrade took the other one by the hand.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled.

The doctor shielded his own face as he followed Lestrade and Sherlock up the stairs. Now burdened with two frightened children, the three of them waded through the burning house, minding smouldering pieces of wood that had fallen from the ceiling and, probably most dangerous, the merciless flames eating away at the walls and roof.

Jesus, these bastards had been thorough.

They almost reached the front door, which, itself, was blocked by a line of fire, when John heard a threatening crack above him from one of the already unstable rafters. He looked up, noticing with horror that the beam was right above Sherlock and Lestrade's heads. He wasted no time in shoving his friends forward through the flaming door with his own body as the wood came crashing down.

* * *

Sherlock was busy shielding the small child in his arms with his Belstaff, feeling an odd sense of urgency to get this child to safety; almost like a fatherly instinct. He squinted through the brightness and the smoke surrounding him, his nostrils and lungs filling up with ash and embers; not exactly safe. Lestrade was ahead of him, now also holding the elder boy, trying to manoeuvre his way through the threatening flames. He could sense John behind him, urging him to move forward with that telepathic link people always claimed the two of them seemed to have (which, at this point, Sherlock was willing to accept as fact). So selfless was his flatmate, always throwing himself in the line of fire (this time quite literally) to help those in need. But damn, did John get authoritative when he switched into selfless mode. Sherlock would normally be annoyed by such behaviour, but for some reason in John's case, he didn't seem to mind. Of course, it usually frightened him a bit to see such a generally friendly man turn cold, even for the briefest period of time.

Sherlock coughed again, earning a concerned glance from Lestrade who was also practically hacking up a lung. They were nearly to the front door.

Without much warning, the detective felt rough hands and soon, a body, push him forward (not too gently) into Lestrade, and they both stumbled through the flames blocking the door and out onto the porch, a crash sounding behind them. Without another thought, they clambered down the stairs, seeing that Donovan had parked the squad cars in front of the house, and hearing more sirens from a distance. The fire brigade had been called, then, probably along with an ambulance or two.

Now out of the fire, Sherlock ran across the lawn to the cars, placing the young boy into Donovan's arms.

"He's fine," he rasped through another coughing fit. "He'll... he'll be fine."

Lestrade came by and placed the other boy down, wrapping the young lad in his coat to calm him down. He coughed some more as well.

"Jesus Christ, what a wreck," he said. "Thanks for noticing the trap. A bit too late, though."

"I'm a detective, not a psychic!" Sherlock argued. "John, explain."

There was no immediate response.

His heart skipping a beat, Sherlock turned around to see the burning house again.

And John wasn't there to block his view.

"John!" he shouted with sore vocal chords.

He ran back towards the house, ignoring the cries from Lestrade and Donovan to stop. He hardly winced as he passed through the flame-engulfed doorway once more. Sure enough, his companion had been unintentionally left behind, but in the worst way possible: trapped beneath a beam. The detective got down on his knees and crawled towards his friend, ignoring the burn in his chest.

"John!" he croaked.

The doctor was weakly struggling beneath the heavy piece of wood pinning down his lower body.

"Hey," he rasped. "I'm a bit stuck."

"You idiot," Sherlock growled, moving around to grab the end of the beam.

"Think m'leg's broken," John remarked.

The detective ignored him and tried lifting the beam, falling back uncomfortably close to a patch of fire.

"Stop," John said. "S'not gonna work." The man was clearly dizzy from smoke inhalation. "Two man job."

Sherlock put a hand on his flatmate's shoulder.

"Don't move."

Before John could protest or even quip regarding the impossibility of him moving anywhere, his friend had run out the door again.

"Bloody coat's on fire," he mumbled.

The git couldn't ever care for his own bloody self.

Sherlock soon returned with Leatrade, the both of them wincing away from the flames.

"Christ, John!" the inspector exclaimed.

He and Sherlock didn't hesitate to get on opposite ends of the beam. With a consensual nod, they lifted it up at the same time, shuffling it away from John, trying to tune out the man's means of pain, and setting it down with a grunt.

"Come on, John," Sherlock coughed.

He slid his friend's arm around his shoulders and lifted him up, shocked by the dead weight.

"John!"

The man was practically unconscious.

"Dammit," Sherlock grumbled.

"Let me help!" Lestrade said.

"Back off. I've got him," Sherlock insisted, adjusting John into a fireman's carry.

Rolling his eyes, Lestrade let Sherlock go through the door, following behind him. He was perfectly happy to leave Hell.

Sherlock ran down the porch steps back out onto the lawn. He waited until he had approached a safe distance and let John down on the grass, flipping him over onto his back.

The doctor coughed for what seemed like ages, his throat catching on ash and smoke.

"Ow," he groaned.

"Are you quite finished being the hero, now?" Sherlock hissed.

"Mmm," John hummed, his eyes drooping.

A fire engine had come bearing men and hoses (as one would usually anticipate), and the workers were quickly moving to put out the relentless flames engulfing the house.

Meanwhile, a paramedic had come over with an oxygen mask and was trying to put it on John.

"Let me," Sherlock commanded her. "Focus on his leg."

The woman nodded and allowed Sherlock to tend to his friend's breathing while she tended to the doctor's leg.

John tried batting away Sherlock's hands as the detective lifted his torso up and tried fixating the mask on him.

"John, stop it," the man said, coughing a bit. "Just let me help you."

With an irritated and tired sigh, John complied, letting his hands fall limply down as the breathing mask was placed over his nose and mouth.

"Breathe, John," Sherlock told him.

Keeping one hand on the mask, the detective used his other one to inspect John's hands, suspecting burns. Sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed by the presence of some painful-looking blisters and patches of sizzling flesh, most likely a product of John's falling face forward when the beam pinned him down; the man's palms must have come in contact with the flames. The beam, if Sherlock's memory served him well, had also been on fire. So when John was struggling to free himself, he, more likely than not, stupidly burned himself.

Lestrade came bounding over to the pair of men, his features exhausted and his face made sheen by sweat. He knelt beside them.

"Are you alright?" he asked, placing a protective hand on Sherlock and John's shoulders.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "And you?"

Lestrade wheezed.

"Seen better days. But I'll be fine."

"Sir, you might want to get you and your friend looked at," the female paramedic working on John's leg interjected.

"We will," Lestrade assured her.

He paused as he looked down at a bit of grass that had caught on fire next to Sherlock's coat which was also on fire.

"I'll just..." he stomped the flames out. "There."

Sherlock's eyes were fixated on John who was breathing ruggedly and obviously paying no mind to the pain his leg was probably causing him.

"He'll be alright," Lestrade told the detective.

"I know that."

"Why don't you let the paramedics take a look at you?"

"Are the children alright?"

Lestrade nodded.

"For the most part. Scared, definitely, but safe."

Sherlock paused.

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"For what, Sherlock?"

"For not anticipating this... unfortunate turn of events."

"Unfortunate is right," Lestrade puffed. "But there was no way you could have known about this. I was only joking before."

"I should have known. These men are-"

"In custody," Lestrade interrupted. "Donovan caught them as they were making a run for it down the road. They weren't expecting us to have reinforcements." He furrowed his brow. "Bastards doused the place and hid until we walked right into their trap. Then they threw a bloody match through the door.

"The problem has been handled accordingly. That's all that matters," Sherlock sighed.

He kept his hand on John's mask to hold it in place, feeling the doctor's warm breath through it.

Lestrade stood up.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright," the inspector said. "But I want you to get yourself looked at after John."

"Fine."

"'Fine' as in you're going to? Or 'fine' as in you want me to stop bothering you?"

"I'll leave that to your imagination."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and walked away to talk to Donovan.

Sherlock noticed a disapproving look on John's face.

"What is it?" he asked.

The doctor weakly pulled the mask from his face to speak.

"You left your shoe," he whispered.

Sherlock looked behind him to see his left foot looking a bit bare.

"Oh. So I did."

John chuckled.

"Idiot."

The detective holding him gave him a tiny smile.

The paramedic fixing John's leg finished securing it with a brace and looked up at Sherlock.

"We ought to move him now," she said. "To get him to the hospital."

Sherlock placed his hand on top of John's to put the mask back in place.

"Fine," he consented.


	34. Freezing Cold on Christmas Eve

**Sorry this one is a bit late for Christmas. :P**

**Thanks to magneta for the idea. (I know it's quite different from what you had in mind, but hopefully you're still satisfied.)**

* * *

A woman by the name of Hannah sat impatiently at her table, angrily sipping away at the glass of water in front of her while she tapped her fingers and watched the doors to the restaurant. She swore to God that if this bastard stood her up one more time, it was over. Even if he did end up showing up, she wasn't sure if she wouldn't do just that.

Suddenly, through the doors came her date, covered from head-to-toe with snow and looking haggard. He looked to be telling the waiter who he was, which then allowed him to pass by and make his way over to the table.

"Hannah!" he greeted with a slight sigh.

He obviously knew things were about to hit a rough spot.

"You're late, John," Hannah snapped.

"Yeah," John admitted as he took a seat.

He shifted in his chair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just-"

"I came out here on Christmas Eve to have you show up here _two hours late_," Hannah told him.

John chuckled nervously.

"Surely it couldn't have been-"

"Two. Hours," Hannah repeated.

"Shite," the doctor bit his lip.

Hannah crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, making a point to look directly away from her date.

"I just... I had some important business to take care of," John said as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Oh?" Hannah scoffed. "What business was _so_ important that you felt it was necessary to stand me up?"

"First of all, I didn't stand you up, Hannah..."

"Right. You just didn't show up for our eight o'clock date until ten," Hannah spat.

John sighed.

"Second of all, you don't know my business, so you can't make assumptions pertaining to its importance, now, can you?"

Hannah laughed mockingly.

"I love how _you're_ getting mad at _me_."

"Look, I didn't want to be late, Hannah."

"I'm sure you didn't, John. And you know what? I didn't want to haul my arse out in the cold on Christmas Eve, but I did. For you."

"Christ, Hannah," John rolled his eyes. "I'm so sorry; I completely forgot how much you sacrifice for me."

"You're in no place to be sarcastic, John. I'm the victim here, not you."

John gritted his teeth.

"You wouldn't know a victim if you saw a dead mother lying broken in a dumpster in an alleyway."

He cringed. Jesus, that was a bit too harsh, wasn't it?

Hannah angrily stood up from her chair.

"You know what? I'm done." She grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and began to shrug it on.

"Hannah, wait," John tried to stop her. "I'm sorry; that was mean. Let's just talk, and-"

"And what? Make up?" Hannah growled. "You think solving your problems is _that_ easy, do you? That after a little talk everything'll be just peachy?"

People around them had begun to stare.

"Hannah..."

"Well I don't give in so easily, John. I'm not a bloody fish that you can reel back in over and over again." She put on her gloves. "Sure, I took the bait, but look at how easily I'm letting go." She stopped to glare at the doctor. "You're a waste of time, John Watson. Everyone's time."

She picked up her purse.

"I'm not going to spend any more of my Christmas Eve stuck here with you. Instead, I'm going to my mum's house where I should have gone in the first place." She shook her head. "To think that I even considered the idea that spending the night with you could be fun is so bloody embarrassing." Hannah finished dressing herself for her departure. "Merry Christmas," she huffed.

And she stormed out of the restaurant, her high heels clacking beneath her.

John looked around him, noting the amused and disgusted faces of other patrons directed at him; he also noticed how quiet it had gotten.

Without so much as an utterance beneath his breath, he calmly stood up from his chair, took some change out of his wallet, and laid it down on the table.

And just as quietly, he left the restaurant.

* * *

John clenched his fists as he walked through the snowy streets of London, making his way back home. He had stupidly left his gloves at home, and his scarf had flown off as well thanks to him running against the wind when he had tried to make it to the restaurant.

Despite the freezing cold, John kept his jaw firmly set, somehow keeping his teeth from chattering. Yet he couldn't keep his eyes from watering and his nose from running.

He still had at least another fifteen minute walk, and considered hailing a cab to make things easier on himself.

But it wasn't worth it, was it?

_A waste of time._

Normally, such words wouldn't bother him. But in light of recent events, it seemed to put things in perspective for him.

He'd failed as a soldier, as a boyfriend, as a brother; and more depressingly, he'd failed at the simple task of being someone's friend.

His best friend had jumped; committed suicide; all because he wasn't better at his job.

The only job that really mattered to him.

And it had taken a Tesco clerk who lived with her mother to make him realise that.

John looked up at the snowy sky, noticing how dark it had become.

Without much of a second thought, he ducked into the alleyway he was about to pass by. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing himself; the only thing he did know was that he didn't want to go back home.

He couldn't. Probably ever again.

Maybe he was hoping to succumb to hypothermia and die, or simply just to disappear and be forgotten (the latter was, he supposed, entirely possible). But all intentions laid aside, John pulled over to the wall and placed his back against its frozen surface, sliding down until he was sitting on the colder ground.

He pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, locking his bare fingers. He felt hot tears threatening to come up and spill over his lashes, but he swallowed to keep them down, telling himself that crying wouldn't do any good; it wouldn't change anything.

He turned his head and rested his cheek on the top of his knees and closed his eyes. Maybe if he did, he wouldn't wake up?

* * *

_John felt a warm pair of hands on his shoulders, wrapping something equally soft and warm around his neck._

_"Idiot," a baritone voice said. "You'll freeze."_

_He then felt someone gently prying his frozen hands away from his knees and put over the skin cozy, woollen gloves._

_"I'll be back soon; I promise," that same voice soothed._

_The warm, comforting hands lingered for a moment before suddenly disappearing._

_John yearned for them to come back._

* * *

John felt a different, rougher hand shaking his shoulder.

"John?" a voice called to him. "John, mate, wake up."

John slowly opened his eyes, the clearing haze from a light and restless sleep eventually revealing the concerned and sad gaze of Greg Lestrade.

"Greg?" John croaked.

"Christ, John, what are you doing out here?" the inspector asked. "It's freezing!"

"L've me 'lone," John said, turning his head the other way.

"For God's sake, get up," Lestrade said. "You'll freeze to death out here."

"S'what 'm h'ping for," John mumbled.

"What?"

"N'thing."

Lestrade grabbed John's arm and lifted him into a standing position with a grunt, nearly dropping him when the man's knees buckled.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Come on, mate." He managed to steady the doctor long enough for him to wrap the shock blanket in his hand around him.

Wait, blanket? John hadn't noticed that before...

As John felt his knees give out again, Lestrade grabbed one of his belt loops with his left index and middle finger to hold him up, bracing his right hand on John's right arm to hold him steady as they shuffled over to the inspector's squad car.

* * *

"Here you are, dear," Mrs. Hudson soothed as she set a steaming cup of tea in John's hand. "Drink up."

John hardly blinked at the offer.

The landlady handed Lestrade a cup as well.

"Here you are, Detective," she said with a smile.

"Thanks, Mrs. H," Lestrade nodded.

Mrs. Hudson pulled a chair up next to him and joined him in starring at John.

"Mate," Lestrade said to the man, "You haven't said anything since the alley. Are you sure you don't need to see a doctor?"

John still stared blankly at the floor.

"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, "Are you alright?"

John hesitated before nodding his head.

Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"You sure? Because a bloke who's alright doesn't park his arse in a bloody alleyway in the freezing winter weather."

John sighed.

"I'm fine, Greg," he whispered, making himself just loud enough so that the other two could hear him.

The inspector crossed his legs and folded his arms, not satisfied by this response; but at least it was a verbal response.

"What about your date, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "With that Hannah girl? Was that all well?"

John chewed on his lip.

"It didn't work out," he said.

"Is that why you're so depressed? Because a date fell through?" Lestrade sighed. "John, there are plenty of fish out there in the ocean. And hey; if she leaves you on Christmas, she's not worth it, anyways."

"Neither am I," John whispered again.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing."

"No, no; what was that?"

"I said it was nothing. It's fine."

"What do you mean 'neither am I'?"

John went silent again; doing so before seemed to have wondrous effects on how much everyone knew.

"Of course you're worth it; any person would be lucky to date you, John. Hell, Mrs. Hudson and I are lucky enough to even _know_ you."

"Right," John snorted.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue.

"He's right, you know; you oughtn't think for one second that you aren't worth anything simply because one silly girl-"

"That isn't it," John stopped her.

"What isn't?" the landlady asked.

"What's wrong."

Lestrade leaned forward in his chair.

"Then what _is_ wrong, John?"

"I... you know, just forget it."

"Hell no," Leatrade shook his head.

"But it's Christmas Eve," John said.

"Exactly; and I'm not leaving you alone. So you'd better tell me what's going on; I've got all night."

Mrs. Hudson reached out a hand and patted John's wrist.

"Go on, dear; we're listening."

John swallowed hard.

"I... it's..." he cleared his throat. "It wasn't just Hannah. I mean, a lot of it was, but..."

Lestrade urged him to continue.

"...she and I were scheduled to meet up at eight tonight for a date. I thought I would have time before to make a quick stop somewhere and I ended up staying too long, I showed up at the restaurant two hours late-"

"Wait, where'd you go?" Lestrade asked him. "Before the date?"

John nervously rubbed a finger down the side of his teacup.

"The cemetery."

Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth.

"Oh dear," she said.

"John..." Lestrade sighed with a pitying look.

"I just... it's Christmas Eve, and he and I would always... you know, he would play his violin and we'd talk like usual, and I..." he swallowed again. "It was just hard without him here. I needed to stop by and... chat, I guess."

Mrs. Hudson started to cry a little.

"Of course, John," she told him.

John nodded.

"Right, well... I stayed a bit too long. I got too caught up in what I was doing that when I looked down at my phone, it was about fifteen minutes until ten." He shrugged. "So I arrived late to my date, Hannah and I exchanged some nasty words, and she broke up with me and took off."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

"And that's all?"

John didn't answer.

"What else happened?"

John licked his lips and stared at the fireplace.

"Before she left, she told me that I was a..." He paused. "...that I was a waste of time. Of everyone's time."

Lestrade frowned.

"And you ended up overthinking it?"

"Depends on your definition of 'overthink'."

Lestrade shook his head.

"Mate, is that what's bothering you? Some impatient arse of a woman who works at the _Tesco_ tells you to basically 'piss off' in her vicious, womanish way and it ruins your Christmas?"

"It just really put things in perspective for me," John said quietly.

"What perspective? What do you mean?"

"I started thinking," John said, "About my life; about the war, about my family, about my friendships and romantic relationships; and I realised that I've…well, that I've basically screwed up everything. I failed my comrades in the war, causing them to die because of a wounded shoulder; I've failed my entire bloody family, my mum being dead from an overdose of sleeping pills because she was so goddamned depressed, and my sister being a horrible alcoholic; I've failed at every romance I've tried to start, simply because they're either too good for me or not good enough..."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"And you're pinning that all on yourself? You shouldn't do that."

John sniffed.

"...and Sherlock..."

Mrs. Hudson cocked her head.

"What about him, John?"

"...I'm the reason he... I just wasn't there for him... I wasn't..." He choked on his words. "...I couldn't even do my job as a friend right. He felt like I didn't love and support him, all because I couldn't work up the strength to tell him." He closed his eyes. "Because I was afraid to tell him."

"No!" Lestrade yelled. "Stop it. Stop right there." He stood up from his chair. "You are not allowed to blame Sherlock's death on yourself; you don't get to do that. You don't get to put all of this guilt on yourself because some girl called you names and you feel like you have to. It's not fair to you and it's not fair to us!"

John braced himself against the chair.

"Fair to you? How am I not being fair to you?"

"Because when people blame something that's completely out of their control on themselves, they end up doing really stupid shite that hurts everyone around them. And knowing you, John, I can tell you're thinking of doing something really stupid."

John firmly gripped the cup in his hand and tightened his lips.

"Take Sherlock for example! He threw himself off a building, and look at yourself; you're an emotional mess! He's destroyed you, all of us, because he couldn't grit his teeth and keep pushing!"

John was trying to keep himself from breaking down.

"John, I just..." Lestrade sighed and sat back down, not missing the slightly scared look in Mrs. Hudson's eyes. "...I've already lost one of you. I don't want to lose the other one."

Mrs. Hudson tentatively moved from her chair and stood next to John, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

"Please, dear; I feel the same."

John bit his lip and nodded.

"I get it."

Lestrade softened his expression.

"John, you're really all we've got in terms of friends. I mean, sure I've got my mates down at the pub, but you're more than just that; you're-"

"Family," Mrs. Hudson finished for the inspector.

"Exactly," Lestrade said. "And family has to stick together, right?"

John smiled a bit.

"Yeah."

"So John, please don't let me find you in the cold again, alright? You scared the hell out of me," Lestrade told him.

John consented to obeying this command when the thought crossed his mind:

"How did you know where I was?"

The inspector stopped a moment himself.

"Actually, I got a text from an unknown number. It was really strange, but I didn't think much of it; I was too worried about you."

John furrowed his brow.

"What the hell?"

Lestrade agreed.

"Yeah. But I'm thankful someone did before it got too bad outside. It was just good that you were wearing a scarf and gloves; kept you from getting too cold."

"I wasn't wearing a scarf and gloves. My scarf blew off when I was running to the restaurant and I left my gloves here."

Lestrade shrugged.

"You must have forgotten, then. I left them on the coatrack after I managed to get them off of you."

John was completely baffled, unsure of how to respond.

"Weird," was all that came out.

A bell toll sounded outside.

"Oh my," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "I suppose it's Christmas Day."

Lestrade crossed his arms.

"I suppose it is."

The landlady smiled softly at John.

"We ought to celebrate with some tea and Christmas biscuits, don't you think, John?"

The doctor looked up at her and smiled back.

"Sounds fantastic, Mrs. H."

"Detective Lestrade, would you mind assisting me in the kitchen?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Sure," said inspector said as he stood up.

John craned his head and watched as the two went into the kitchen and began to bustle about, making and preparing an early morning Christmas Day treat.

"Family," John muttered. "My family."

He set his still warm cup of tea to the side and got up, turning around and stretching his numb arms and legs. His eyes caught on the coatrack.

Strung up on two hooks were a blue scarf and a pair of black, leather gloves much too big for his hands.


	35. Exploiting Injury

**Happy New Year, everybody! Sorry this fic isn't really festive, but oh well. *shrugs***

**Watsonmybae** **gave me this prompt. :)**

* * *

"Sherlock, slow down!" John yelled into the night, his voice reverberating off of the empty alleyways lining the equally empty street and sidewalk.

The detective running ahead of him came to an abrupt stop; whether it was so he could catch up or simply a part of whatever plan had been set, John didn't know. But he was still grateful.

He jogged up beside his flatmate and slowed to a stop, placing his hands on his knees and bending over to catch his breath.

"We've... we've lost him," John said. "Just accept it."

"I find your lack of optimism disturbing, John," Sherlock scoffed.

"Was that reference intentional?"

The taller man raised a confused eyebrow.

"What?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Never mind." His heart having slowed down considerably, the doctor straightened himself up again. "What do we do now?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "I need to think."

The detective pondered the situation for a moment before looking up at the nearby rooftop. Narrowing his eyes, he could barely make out a shoe sticking out from behind the roof duct.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "Wait beside the next alley up. If or when you hear a crash, ready your Browning."

John grabbed the man's sleeve before he could run off.

"Wait, what? What's happening?"

Sherlock's eyes darted up in the direction of the roof, giving his companion enough of a clue.

"Right," John nodded. "Go on."

The doctor sighed and watched his flatmate run down to the end of the alleyway they were positioned beside and climb up the fire escape as quietly as he possibly could.

And, surprisingly, he was pretty quiet.

After taking a deep breath, John darted off to the next alley, placing his back flat up against the wall perpendicular to it.

He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck as he placed his hand on his gun; he wanted to be ready.

Suddenly, he heard shouting up above him, most of the vulgar exchange being led by the criminal he and Sherlock had been chasing.

And there there was the sound of gunfire.

"Sherlock?!" he screamed.

There were a multitude of grunts combined with muffled swearing. A gun audibly clattered on the ground, and John let out a sigh of relief.

At least Sherlock was okay.

There was a crashing sound in the alley along with the sound of a man groaning, and John jumped out into the open as he pulled out his gun.

"Police!" he yelled. "Get down on the-"

He let out a sigh at the sight of Sherlock slowly rolling onto his back on top of a pile of rubbish bags.

"Jesus," John muttered.

He jogged over to his friend and climbed onto the pile, grabbing the man's hand and lifting him onto his feet.

"John, where is he?" Sherlock said. "Where's he gone?"

John shook his head.

"I only heard you come down. Are you alright?"

Sherlock growled and stepped aside.

"That doesn't matter! Where-" He looked up. "John!"

Before John could make a move, the criminal had jumped from the roof and tackled him down to the ground, sending his trusty gun clinking down the walk.

"Son of a bitch!" John cried out as he wrestled with the man on top of him.

He managed to pin the man down by the wrists, but was quickly weakened when the elder man kneed him in the crotch.

"Agh!"

Sherlock, meanwhile, had grabbed the gun and pointed it at the duo.

"John, subdue him! What are you doing?" he shouted.

John punched the criminal in the jaw and struggled onto his feet.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

The criminal tackled the doctor again from behind, this time getting him into a chokehold while simultaneously yanking his left arm behind him.

John cried out in pain.

"Ooh, sorry, Watson; does that hurt?" the criminal sneered as he tugged harder.

"Good enough," Sherlock mumbled. "Let him go," he commanded as he pulled back the hammer of the L9A1.

"And why would I? If I do you're just going to shoot me," the criminal hissed.

Sherlock's gaze remained stoic.

"You seem to peg me as a cold-blooded killer, Mr. Thompson."

John fought against tears that had begun to brim. Thompson's grappling hold was angled just perfectly that it aggravated John's bullet wound from years ago, putting the poor doctor in a crippling amount of pain; he could barely move to defend himself.

"What happened there, doctor? You don't seem to be fighting back," the criminal questioned John, genuinely curious (yet morbidly so).

John gritted his teeth.

"Bastard."

Thompson licked his lips and grinned as he yanked back the doctor's arm, this time producing a cracking sort of sound.

"Fu-agh!" John cried.

Sherlock visibly shifted his weight forward, as if longing to run to his partner's aid.

"Looks like I found a weak spot," Thompson chuckled. "What is it? Weak arm?"

Sherlock scowled.

"None of your business."

The criminal shrugged.

"No need to be rude." He gripped John's forearm tightly. "Now, here's the deal: you put the gun down and let me go, or else I break your mate's arm."

Sherlock gave John a wary look as he thought through the situation.

"Well, Mr. Thompson," he said as coolly as ever, "It seems as if we've reached an impasse."

Thompson narrowed his eyes.

"Says you."

He pulled John's arm a bit more, and the doctor whimpered in response.

Sherlock's eye twitched.

"Wait, wait!" John yelled. "Just hang on."

Thompson gave him a sceptical look.

"What?"

With as much force as he could muster, John threw his head back, nailing Thompson right in the nose.

The criminal yowled in pain, his hand releasing some of its pressure, but only so much. Angrily, he dug his fingers into John's right shoulder and left forearm, and then drove the doctor into the left wall of the alley. There was a loud crack, and John fell to the ground with a breathless scream.

Sherlock immediately aimed the gun at Thompson's foot and fired, sending the man to the floor along with an expansive slew of vulgarity.

The detective then marched over to the criminal, bent over, and pistol-whipped him across the temple, instantaneously knocking him unconscious.

John watched through blurred vision as Thompson flopped limply onto the hard ground of the alley. The blinding pain from his shoulder was practically paralysing, and breathing seemed impossible.

"John?" he heard Sherlock say his name. "John, look at me! Are you conscious?"

John swallowed and tried shaking himself out of his stupor.

"Wha...? Oh, Jesus," he groaned. "Yeah. Ow... Christ. Okay."

Sherlock grabbed John's right arm and lifted him into a sitting position.

"Ah! Ffffff-!"

Sherlock knelt down beside the doctor and held him upright by his right shoulder.

"Your left shoulder; it appears to be dislocated," he stated.

John nodded quickly with tightly shut eyes.

"Mhm. S'what it feels like."

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Should I-"

"Yeah. Should. Just..." John breathed in and out. "...just give me a minute."

He blinked a few times, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable.

"Okay," he muttered. "Alright." John nodded toward his trousers. "Belt..."

"To bite down on, right," Sherlock said.

Without much hesitation, the detective unbuckled his flatmate's leather belt and pulled it out from the loops, then proceeding to double it over to layer it.

"Open," he commanded John.

The doctor obliged, shakily opening his mouth and letting Sherlock slide the belt in between his teeth. He then bit down.

"Y'kna wha te da?" John asked as he swallowed again.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Though you are quite incoherent, I can imagine what your question is; I know exactly what do. You did lead me through the process last year when one of Lestrade's officers fell through an old flight of wooden stairs."

John let out a breath and turned his head away from his messed up shoulder, closing his eyes tightly.

"I'll count to three," Sherlock told his friend. "One..."

He slowly lifted John's arm up in front of him and straightened it out.

"Two-"

With an abrupt and hard push, the doctor's shoulder popped right into place.

John screamed through the belt, feeling his molars bite down hard on the leather; in the back of his mind, he was sure he had broken through both layers of fabric.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, his vision going from grey, to white, to black, and then to grey again.

Though his eyes finally rolled into the back of his head, nearly plunging him into unconsciousness, strong hands kept him from falling to the ground, and he could barely make out the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"...ohn..."

John felt the belt get pulled out of his mouth, his jaw having gone slack. He felt a string of saliva cling onto his bottom lip as the belt was pulled away.

"John..."

His ears felt as if they were full of cotton.

"John... okay..."

The doctor reached his right arm out to catch himself from falling on his face as he spit up what little he had had to eat that day.

He felt Sherlock's one hand keep a firm yet gentle grip on his left shoulder and his other hand on his back, rubbing smooth circles in between his shoulder blades.

"...alright, John," Sherlock soothed.

John blearily opened his eyes, seeing his lunch on the pavement.

"Ugh..." he moaned.

The stuffy feeling in his ears seemed to clear up, as he could hear his friend quite clearly now.

"Are you alright to move, John?"

John took a shaky breath and nodded.

"Mhm."

Sherlock lifted the doctor back up, resting the man's back against the wall.

"You'll need a sling," he said. "And then I'll contact Lestrade; he'll phone an ambulance."

John sluggishly licked his lips.

"'Kay. What're you-"

He hardly had a chance to finish his question before Sherlock had whipped off his own scarf and fashioned it into a makeshift sling.

The detective gently adjusted John's arm so it rested in the scarf/sling.

"How is that?"

John chuckled.

"Your scarf?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Of course. What else would I use?"

The taller man pulled out his phone and sent out a text to Inspector Lestrade with trembling thumbs.

Thompson groaned from his position on the ground.

"For God's sake," Sherlock groaned. "John...?"

The doctor brushed off the impending request with his right hand.

"S'okay."

Sherlock crawled over to the criminal and brought the man's hands behind his back before sitting down on top of them.

"Gavin will be arriving shortly," the detective said.

John rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Jesus."

"What?"

"Forget it," the older man said with a shake of his head.

Sherlock looked closely at his flatmate's shoulder with evident distaste.

John narrowed his eyes.

"What?"

"You are in an incredible amount of pain."

"Yeah. No thanks to the war. Or to this arsehole," the doctor gestured to the unconscious man pinned beneath the detective.

Sherlock tightened his lips.

"I was going to effectively handle the situation and avoid this outcome, had you not taken matters into your own hands."

John snorted.

"No you weren't. You miscalculated and you know it."

Sherlock blushed.

"You have no proof."

The doctor couldn't help but smirk.

"Whatever makes you feel better." He looked down at the ground. "But thanks."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Such gratitude is unnecessary, John." The detective smiled. "But since you seem to think it is; you're welcome."

"Surprised you actually remembered what I taught you," John smirked.

Sherlock heard the man beneath him groan and he elbowed him in the back, making him howl.

"You assume that everything you tell me goes 'through one ear and out the other', as that saying goes. But you've never stopped to consider the possibility that your credibility as a doctor does not go unnoticed by me. I've retained most of the medical knowledge that you've passed on to me throughout our time as flatmates. For example; CPR in the event of a drowning situation-"

John held up his hand.

"Alright, alright; point taken." His smirk turned into a tired grin. "Didn't know you paid much attention to what I say."

Sherlock smiled again, this time a bit more playfully.

There came the sound of sirens wailing in the distance, and the two flatmates seemed to share a sigh of relief. The cavalry had finally arrived.


	36. Shaken Up

**I'm back!**

**So sorry for the long hiatus;** **life got in the way.**

**Anyway, this one-shot was inspired by gill. ****Hopefully you like it. :)**

* * *

"Sherlock, don't stare," John chastised his friend as he peered over the rim of his menu.

Sherlock had been (not too subtly) intently scrutinising the couple at the table across the room, deducing as much as he could about them as a sort of mental exercise. With a sigh, his gaze shifted to John.

"They're boring me, anyway," he said. "The wife is obviously cheating on her balding, middle-class husband due to her dissatisfaction with the sex they have and his uncomfortably close relationship with his dying mother." He buzzed his lips almost comically. "Dull."

"Sherlock, for God's sake," John groaned, setting down his menu. "Just figure out what you'd like to order."

"I'm not planning on ordering anything."

John went to protest, but before he could, the waiter came over to their table.

"Are you two ready to order?" asked the man with a cordial smile.

"Yeah," John nodded. "I'll have the lasagna," he gestured to the detective across from him, "And he'll have the chicken spaghettini."

Sherlock looked at the doctor with an indignant frown.

"No problem," the waiter winked. "And I'll bring a bottle of wine by too for the both of you."

The offer registered with John a little bit too late, and he hardly had time to inform the man of his heterosexuality before he grabbed the menus from the table and set off for the kitchen.

"Dammit," he mumbled.

"I told you I wasn't intent on eating anything, John," Sherlock huffed.

"Yeah, well forgive me for being a damn doctor and insisting that you take care of your body." He crossed his legs and took out his phone. "Now stop complaining and drink your water."

Sherlock visibly pouted, annoyed by the fact that John was acting like his own mother; telling him to "take care of yourself" and "drink your water" and "don't smoke when spraying hairspray on your wigs".

"I suppose you'll be telling me to eat my vegetables," he scoffed.

John narrowed his eyes and stared daggers at his companion.

"Damn right, you petulant little child."

"I'm not a child."

"You might as well be."

Sherlock tightened his lips and stared dejectedly out the window.

"Hmm..."

The waiter's unbearably cheerful smile appeared over the heads of other patrons.

"Here you two are," he said, setting down a fancy looking bottle of wine. "This is one of our finest bottles."

John chuckled, a bit flabbergasted.

"Ah, thanks. But I-"

"Cabernet Sauvignon," Sherlock interrupted. "An adequate wine that will sufficiently sate my partner and me." He looked at the waiter with a plastic smile. "Thank you."

The waiter nodded.

"Certainly. You two enjoy yourselves." And again, he returned to the kitchen.

"Moron," Sherlock muttered.

"He's just trying to be nice, Sherlock," John sighed.

"He wants a good tip."

"And he's getting it," John said emphatically. "Even if he does think we're a couple."

"Aren't we?" Sherlock shrugged

John blushed.

"What-? No! No, we're not-" He cleared his throat. "That's not the word for it."

"Ah."

John looked at the wine bottle and bit his lip.

"Well... since this is here, do you want to...?"

Sherlock gave his friend a puzzled look, but rolled his eyes with a resigned sigh.

"I suppose." He crossed his arms, watching as John poured him a glass. "Only an approximate three tenths of a pint, though."

John halted the stream of wine to give the detective a withering look.

"Right..." He continued to fill Sherlock's glass until it was practically overflowing. "Have fun."

"How amusing," Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John filled his own glass to the brim and smirked.

"Cheers."

* * *

"One night out, Sherlock; that's all I wanted. One nice night out," John growled as he marched beside the detective.

The two men turned a corner into an empty street.

Sherlock, a bit tipsy, tried to defend himself.

"John, he was absolutely-"

"Doing his job."

"He was obtrusive."

"He was a perfectly friendly waiter who wanted nothing but happy customers."

"He also happened to be a closeted homosexual."

"So you felt the need to announce it to the whole bloody restaurant?"

Sherlock went to respond, but saw that John had jogged a good distance ahead of him.

"John!" he called.

His friend slowed down to a dead-end shuffle as he continued to furiously trod down the empty path.

Across the street, Sherlock noticed a dark figure walking at about the same pace as John, and the hairs on his neck stood on end.

"John," he hissed.

The doctor kept walking.

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock jogged up to his flatmate and grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Let me go, you prick," John seethed, ripping his bicep out of Sherlock's grip.

"John, you're upset and a bit drunk, so I believe that we ought to hurry back to the flat."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Sherlock turned his head to the opposite sidewalk, noticing that the figure had disappeared.

"John, we really should-"

Suddenly, there was an arm around his neck, dragging him into the alleyway behind him, and another person was roughly handling John.

"Hey there, Holmes," a gravelly voice whispered in his ear. "Remember me?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and wrinkled his nose.

"Well, there is the distinct odour of Polo Red and whiskey." He coughed. "But then again, such an odour isn't foreign to me."

The man holding him laughed.

"I thought your mind was a steel trap. But since your memory needs jogged..." He grabbed Sherlock's right arm and twisted it behind the detective's back. "Arnold Schumacher. And this is for my sister." He grinned. "Watch this."

"What the hell-?! Let me go!" John shouted at his captor.

The doctor's command was answered by a hard punch in the face, and he was sent to the ground, landing on his stomach. His bad arm was pinned behind him, and he felt the man on top of him stuff a rolled pair of socks into his mouth.

What the hell was happening?!

"John!" Sherlock screamed, fighting the tight hold keeping him from rushing to his friend's aid.

Of course, the whole situation was alarming, but it was really the attacker's abrupt grip on John's waistband that was particularly so.

And the eventual effort to _pull his trousers off_.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

John began squirming more than he already had been, not wanting what was about to happen to happen.

The man holding him down grabbed his hair and smashed his head into the black top, hard enough to daze him, but not with enough force to knock him out.

Sherlock was overcome with panic and adrenaline.

And with a loud, barbaric yell, he threw his head back, knocking his skull against Schumacher's nose, eliciting a yelp of pain from him and one of alarm from John's attacker.

He angrily grabbed Schumacher by the collar and threw him against the wall of the alley, and easily defended himself against the aggressive counterattack enacted by the man's accomplice.

The two criminals lay on the ground side-by-side, groaning in pain. Of course, being unsympathetic, Sherlock had no qualms about dealing them both a swift kick in the cranium.

With both men incapacitated, the detective rushed over to John who was slowly pushing himself up from the ground, struggling to keep his balance.

"John..." Sherlock wrapped an arm around his companion's back and lifted him into a sitting position.

He gently pulled out the makeshift gag that had been forced down John's throat, and the doctor coughed upon removal.

"Sh'lock..."

John was breathing rapidly, understandably shaken up.

"Was that... was I almost...?"

"You weren't. You're okay," Sherlock reassured him. "It's alright now. Are you alright?"

Every terse sentence fired past the detective's lips, and the man was trembling horribly.

"For God's sake, John, please tell me you're alright," Sherlock begged.

John swallowed and nodded.

"I... yeah, I just... that was really, erm..."

"Shut up," Sherlock said, taking John's face in between his hands and tilting the doctor's face from side to side. "Possible concussion and further head trauma, bruised jaw-"

"Sherlock, it's fine. "

Sherlock kept his arm around John while he grabbed his phone from his pocket.

"I'm phoning Lestrade."

"Yeah, good idea," John agreed. "I'm just going to..." He breathed out a shaky sigh and leaned against Sherlock's chest, trying to control his emotions.

"Lestrade, I require your assistance," the detective ordered into his cell. "I don't know. Track my mobile and find me." He growled. "I'll explain later. Just hurry."

After hanging up on the inspector, Sherlock began to dial 999.

"And now an ambulance," he said.

"Sherlock, no," John insisted. "No ambulance. I'm okay."

"You were nearly raped, John, and you've sustained some injuries that are rather concerning. I think it's quite necessary."

"Sherlock," John sat up to look the detective in the eye. "I just want to go home."

Sherlock looked down at his phone and back at John before submitting to his friend's desires.

"Very well," he said. "After Lestrade arrives and puts these Neanderthals in handcuffs."

"M'kay," John nodded.

And so they waited for the cavalry to arrive.

* * *

Sherlock paced about the room, his stern brow furrowed and his hands clasped behind him.

"Sherlock?" John said.

The detective barely registered the fact that his flatmate had spoken.

"Hey, can you stop?" John asked. "You're stressing me out."

Sherlock sighed and stopped in his tracks.

"My apologies, John. I didn't intend to offend you," he bit.

"I would like to know what the hell that was, now that the danger's done." John said. "Who was that guy and how does he know you?"

Sherlock tightened his lips and looked down at the floor.

"A client?" John surmised. "An enemy?"

"The latter," Sherlock admitted. "He was the brother of Aileen Schumacher, a woman guilty of three counts of rape and two of assault."

"Christ," John groaned.

"I finally managed to send her to prison, where she committed suicide after only a month of confinement." He shook his head. "Of course, I'd only met her brother once, and I knew of his close relationship with Aileen, but I never anticipated-" He kicked his chair.

"Sherlock, relax," John told the man. "We had a scare, but we're both okay."

"I don't care about my own well-being, you dullard!" He turned on his heel to face the older doctor. "_You_ were the one molested tonight; not me."

"I really shouldn't have poured you so much wine..."

"It's not the wine!" Sherlock bellowed.

John stood and placed a tentative hand on his friend's trembling shoulder.

"Sherlock," he soothed. "I'm okay. Granted, still a bit on edge, but okay. I've taken care of my bruises and put on a belt, so I feel chipper now." He chuckled softly, hoping to get a laugh in return.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't so keen on shedding his tensity.

"You know," John said, "I think we could both use some tea."

"You always say that," Sherlock snapped.

"I say it because it's true." John gave his flatmate a stern look. "Now, why don't you change into some pyjamas and calm down? I'll make you a cup just the way you like it, and we can sit down and watch some crap tele; we'll do what we usually do, alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Okay."

As he started to walk to his bedroom, he stopped and licked his lips.

"At the restaurant..."

"Yeah?"

"I was... inconsiderate."

John rolled his eyes at the poor excuse for an apology, but Sherlock looked so worn and apologetic that he didn't feel the need to comment on it.

"It's forgotten," John said. "By me, anyway."

Sherlock nodded.

"Right."

And that was the last they spoke of the evening.

For the rest of the night, the two of them sat in front of the television watching Masterchef, both sipping quietly at their tea.

But neither of them could really calm their nerves.

Especially Sherlock.

* * *

**Sorry that this one is a bit short, but I'll be writing more one-shots soon. :)**


	37. Broken

**Another chapter is here!**

**Now, I am in a bit of a hurry to update right now, so I haven't the time to check who recommended this to me and give them the proper credit (so sorry), so there is no shout-out this time.**

**To whoever _did_ leave this prompt for me: thank you!**

* * *

Lestrade's chin bobbed against his chest as he struggled to stay awake, wanting to hold on until he received any updates. But it was pretty damn hard, considering the fact that he had gotten so little sleep over the past month or so. He had mainly been functioning on caffeine and pure willpower thus far. Yet he was hardly thinking about sleep; his mind was focused on John.

Weeks ago, the doctor had been working a late shift at the clinic, as everyone had confirmed, and simply didn't return home. He had just vanished.

Lestrade had really been concerned about how Sherlock would react, given the man's overbearing possessiveness of his flatmate, but was surprised by how nonchalant the detective actually was. Granted, obviously worried, but calm and collected; so Lestrade stayed the same way.

That attitude, however, soon changed, as hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks.

That was when both he and Sherlock really started to worry and began to desperately rack their brains to figure out who had made off with John (as that was clearly what had happened) and why.

Well, Sherlock quickly and easily answered both questions:

Moriarty.

It should have been a dead giveaway to Lestrade, really. But, in the inspector's defence, he wasn't exactly attuned to the level of Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock and John.

The only question left unanswered was where Moriarty had John hidden.

Quite certainly, the thought had crossed Lestrade's mind that John might already be dead, but he knew simply suggesting such an outcome would result in unmentionable harm to his body and/or self-esteem dealt by the doctor's loyal sociopath. So he kept his mouth shut, playing the part of concerned friend and detective inspector.

They had searched tirelessly for five weeks, turning over every stone and still coming up empty-handed; no puzzles, no clues, no witnesses or connections.

There was absolutely nothing; it was apparent that Moriarty was simply relishing in Sherlock's relentless search for John Watson; yet Sherlock still looked, his determination simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying in Lestrade's eyes.

Never before had the inspector seen the high-functioning sociopath exhibit such loyalty and love; nor did he expect it. No one did. Even Donovan had commented on it, replacing her typical snide and vicious tone with a softer, more sympathetic one.

As the search dragged onto its sixth week and Sherlock finally collapsed from exhaustion, Lestrade put his foot down and forced the detective into a cab to 221B, convincing the younger man that he was 'no help to John dead'. Reluctantly, Sherlock obliged, but was intent on getting only a few hours' rest before jumping back on the case.

That was yesterday.

Now, Lestrade was slowly dozing off in his office chair, watching his computer screen and phone through lazily drooping lids and bloodshot eyes.

He woke up to the pain of hitting his forehead on his desk.

"What the hell...?" he slurred.

"Greg," a firm, female voice said from the doorway. "Go home; get some rest."

Lestrade shook the fog from his brain and stared at Sally Donovan.

"I can't," he insisted. "I promised Sherlock I'd wait here until I heard something."

"The Freak isn't the boss of you," Sally said. "Go home and sleep; you haven't gotten any in a while."

"I..." Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. "...I am exhausted."

"Exactly." Donovan tossed the inspector the keys to his flat. "You dropped these in the plant by the stairwell."

Lestrade caught the keys with a flustered expression.

"Oh."

"Mhm." Sally spun on her heel and walked out the door. "I'll tell you if I hear anything."

And so, against his clouded judgement, Lestrade left the Yard, homeward bound.

His flat was only a short walk from his office; about fifteen minutes if he cut through a back street. He thought it pointless to spend money on cab fare. So he pushed past pedestrians as he crossed the street, nearly tripping over his own feet a few times, and hurried down the sidewalk. With a few turns, he finally found himself strolling through his shortcut, a rather worn down street, wrinkling his nose at the smell of offending body odour and animal excrement that wafted through the area.

"Spare some change?" a grease-covered man in a loose-fitting hoodie asked him.

Lestrade nodded tiredly and slipped a few coins into the eager hand of the poor man.

"God bless you, mate," he smiled at the inspector who simply kept walking.

A few more minutes now.

He walked a bit further down the street, realising with disgust that he was passing an alleyway full of trash.

He also realised that there was a sizeable group of homeless men and women surrounding the dumpster in that alley; about five or six of them. They were all talking to each other in hushed whispers, some looking scared, others looking like they were planning something.

"What's going on here?" Lestrade inquired, aware of the abnormality of the situation.

"What's it to you?" a particularly starved woman hissed at him.

"Police," Lestrade flaunted his badge. "Now what is going on?"

"There's a body here, officer," another man interjected. "In that bin there. We're worried someone's murdering the lot of us."

"A body?" Lestrade groaned internally. This was the last thing he needed right now. Why had he said a damn word? "Alright, step aside; let me have a look."

The inspector pushed through the few people crowding the dumpster and mounted a pile of rubbish bags to take a look inside.

His face blanched and he felt as if his heart had dropped into his lower intestine.

Beneath a bag of trash was a blonde man who looked to be in his forties, his eyes looking sunken and hollow, his skin clammy and pale, his figure frail, and his cream-coloured jumper torn and oversized.

The inspector could barely hear himself as he spoke:

"John?"

* * *

*_'Bart's. Now. John.'_*

Sherlock read those words over and over again as he screamed at the cabbie to drive faster; no speed would ever be fast enough.

The cab finally screeched to a halt in front of Bart's hospital, and Sherlock threw himself out the door and towards the hospital entrance, ignoring the curses thrown at him by the cab driver for forgetting the fare.

He flew through the front doors, shoved past hospital staff, and knocked over patients as he sprinted to the waiting room.

Lestrade caught him by the arm before he ran too far.

"Slow down there," the inspector told him. "Calm down."

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, sounding like a frightened child. "Where's John?"

"Being taken care of by the hospital," Lestrade assured him.

Sherlock's knees nearly buckled.

"He's alive," he sighed.

"Yeah..." Lestrade swallowed a hard lump in his throat and gripped Sherlock's arm tightly. "Sherlock, he was barely holding on when I found him."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from falling apart.

"I don't know if he's going to make it..."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and pierced through Lestrade's tired, brown eyes with his own icy heterochromatic ones.

"Don't say that."

"Sherlock-"

The detective gripped Lestrade's lapels and shook him.

"Don't even suggest it." His bottom lip visibly trembled. "He _will_ be alright; he has to be." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "He needs to be."

Lestrade, hardly fazed by the taller man's outburst, patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't attempt to comfort me; you know it won't work," the man snapped.

"It doesn't hurt to try," the inspector said. "Why don't you sit down? Get some sleep; you need it."

Sherlock shook his head adamantly.

"Not until I see John."

"That may be a while."

"I don't care. I'll wait as long as I must."

And so they sat quietly in the hospital's waiting room, Lestrade balling up his jacket to use as a pillow and going to sleep.

They were there for a good five or six hours before a female doctor turned the corner and approached them.

* * *

_'Malnutrition, indefinite mental and emotional trauma, scarce signs of physical abuse...'_

The diagnosis rang clear in Sherlock's head as he stared down at his thin friend who, presently, looked a mere shell of his former self.

_'...strong indications of forced substance abuse...'_

Sherlock ran his slender fingers up and down John's left forearm, tensing at the feeling of numerous puncture wounds, some fresher than others.

He couldn't bring himself to speak; his throat felt tight and unfit for use.

"How are you doing?" Lestrade asked the detective with an involuntary yawn.

Sherlock visibly bristled at the question.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing; sorry."

Sherlock cocked his head at his flatmate and gripped the man's bony hand tightly. "Where did you find him?"

Lestrade tightened his lips and looked down at the floor.

"Just... I stumbled upon him."

Sherlock craned his neck and stared at the inspector.

"Where?"

"He was..." Lestrade sighed. "Moriarty; or at least one of his men; left him in a dumpster."

Sherlock's eyes clouded over with rage.

"What?" He released his hold on John's hand and stood up slowly. "A dumpster?"

Lestrade nodded.

"The bastard," Sherlock growled. "He just had his fun, finished his job, and dumped John in the trash? Left him to rot?!"

The detective's voice echoed in the small room.

"Sherlock, calm down," Lestrade told him.

"I will not calm down, Greg!" Sherlock looked back at John with sad, apologetic eyes. "This is my fault; all my fault."

"Don't blame yourself for this."

"I will because I _am_ the one to blame. And now I must remedy the situation; I shouldn't have any trouble at all with that." He turned up his coat collar. "There is no power on this earth that will stop me from killing Jim Moriarty now." He sniffed. "None."

Lestrade stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"There's me."

Sherlock glared at the inspector.

"Sherlock, I'm not letting you run out looking for vengeance and get yourself killed," Lestrade said. "I'm not going to lose you now." He ran a hand over his face. "I think that might do me in."

Sherlock was visibly impatient.

"But Moriarty-"

"Is a son of a bitch that will get what's coming to him. But right now, you should stay here with John; I know you're the first person he's going to need to see when he wakes up; someone he really trusts."

Though Sherlock was eager to wrap his hands around the throat of his nemesis, John was of more immediate importance to him.

Reluctantly, he nodded in agreement, his murderous gaze disappearing and quickly subjugated by a broken frown.

"I'll keep you updated, okay?" Lestrade assured him.

"Mycroft is still looking too," Sherlock said.

"We're both running into dead ends, then."

"Find another way around." Sherlock returned to his seat next to John and rested his hand on the bed. "And sleep; your appearance is objectionable."

"You could use some more rest yourself," the inspector responded. "Try to catch a wink, yeah?"

By this time, Sherlock had removed himself from the conversation and was focused once more on John, his own chest rising up and down rapidly.

There was no way in hell the man was going to let Moriarty go.

No one touched John and left unscathed.

No one.

* * *

Sherlock had his elbows propped on his knees, fingers locked together, and chin resting on his knuckles. He stared at John's unconscious form intently, unable to avert his gaze; this wasn't John. It couldn't be. John was supposed to be plump and pink and radiant; this man looked ashen. Dead.

But he wasn't dead.

Not his body, anyway. But the John Sherlock knew was.

"No," the detective said to himself, unintentionally out loud.

This was still John Watson; _his_ John Watson. He had to be.

Sherlock put his head in his hands and let out a choked sigh.

"This is all my fault," he said. "I tried to find you, John; I truly did. Tirelessly." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I do wish that we'd never met; if we hadn't, neither of us would have gotten hurt." He swallowed hard. "I don't like feeling this way; whatever you'd call this." He looked back up at John. "You know; of course you do. You always know."

As expected, the doctor gave no response.

Sherlock scoffed at himself.

"I suppose you'd find this rather hypocritical; me having a one-sided conversation with your unconscious self while having scorned others who've done the same." He tightened his lips. "I suppose I ought to be relieved that you aren't awake to chastise me. But really, I'd welcome that."

Again, all that Sherlock heard in response were the ominous beeps coming from the heart monitor.

"I am so sorry, John," he said, placing his hand on John's disconcertingly thin forearm. "There; I've said it. Now would you kindly stop this nonsense?"

Another beep from the monitor.

"Please, John."

As if he had heard the plea, John began to stir.

Sherlock's heart fluttered and he jumped up from his chair, bending over and looking hopefully at John's pallid face.

"John?" he said, hoping to encourage the doctor to rouse from his medically induced slumber.

The injured man's eyes flew open, and with a panicked cry, he threw a fist at Sherlock, catching the detective in the jaw.

* * *

"Let me in there!" Sherlock screamed at the nurse restraining him.

"We will in a few hours; but right now, we need to calm him down," she told the frantic detective. "He's likely hallucinating-"

"Obviously!" Sherlock pushed her aside. "He needs me; open the door."

"Sir-"

"Open the door," a calm voice commanded the young woman.

"Mister Holmes," the nurse nodded in the direction the voice had come from. "I am sorry, but I-"

Mycroft held up his umbrella to silence her.

"I request that you open the door for my younger brother. Doctor Watson is of immeasurable importance to him."

The nurse sighed and obliged the older Holmes brother, opening the door and letting Sherlock inside.

"If anything happens-"

"He will," Mycroft answered.

With a shake of her head, the young nurse walked off.

Mycroft strolled into the hospital room after his little brother, the metal tip of his umbrella clacking rather authoritatively on the floor.

Without question, the doctors checking John's vitals finished their job and left the room, Mycroft shutting the door after them.

Sherlock had quickly resumed his position beside John, making no mention of his brother.

"A 'thank you' might be in order, little brother," Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Go away," Sherlock hissed.

The elder Holmes smiled insincerely.

"You're quite welcome."

Sherlock stared sadly at his companion.

"He was frightened," he suddenly said. "He hit me."

"Well-deserved, I should think," Mycroft remarked.

"I've never seen him so afraid, Mycroft. It's unnerving."

"We can't all be like you; stoic and unfeeling."

"You're worse than I am in that regard."

"Like brother, like brother."

Sherlock brought his feet up onto the chair and rested his head on his knees. "But I feel something," he said. "I feel-"

"Concern, I'm sure."

"Guilt, I believe is the word."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Only _you_ could make a situation such as this revolve around yourself."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled. "I don't enjoy the sentiment."

"What have I said before, brother dear? Caring is _not_ an advantage."

"You know I never heed your advice."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"This might be a sign that doing so would prove useful on your side."

Sherlock burrowed his head in between his knees.

"Leave."

"I have an appointment, anyway," Mycroft shrugged.

The older brother looked at John, and his expression softened.

"Do tell Doctor Watson that I wish him well."

With no answer from the young detective, Mycroft left, the clacking from his umbrella fading the further he got from the room.

* * *

John woke again after three hours, his anticipated outburst hindered by the straps holding down his body.

"John," Sherlock soothed. "John, stop; calm down. It's only me."

The paralysing fear the detective saw in his friend's eyes broke his icy heart.

"John, look at me," he commanded the doctor. "Look."

"Please, just stop!" John sobbed. "I don't want any more; please! No more!"

Sherlock's blood boiled; whatever Moriarty had done to instil this kind of panic in his flatmate was rage inducing. That bastard was going to get his comeuppance.

Bottling up his fury, the detective placed his hands on either of his friend's cheeks, firmly holding on.

"John," he said, "It's Sherlock."

The doctor's lost and helpless eyes looked in Sherlock's direction.

"No, it's not! It isn't!"

"Just look at me, please John," Sherlock begged. "I promise you it's me."

"It isn't!" John shook his head. "Shut up!"

With a deep breath, Sherlock slowly undid the straps around John, starting with the feet and moving to the doctor's wrists. Before his companion could land another punch, Sherlock caught his wrist, and then the other one when it came around.

"You always say I have ridiculously sharp cheekbones; one of a kind." Sherlock pressed John's hands to his own cheeks.

And he could have cried at how in shock his friend was.

"Sh... Sherlock?" John questioned, the name clumsily tumbling from his tongue.

Sherlock nodded and sat down on the bed beside the man, bringing his hands up to his scalp to allow the doctor to feel his thick curls.

"It's me."

Whether John was certain that what he was seeing was real or imaginary didn't seem to matter.

The doctor just began to sob uncontrollably out of pain, fear, and relief.

And as foreign as this type of situation was to him, Sherlock reached out and pulled John into a tight embrace, as if the action were almost instinctual.

"It's alright, John," he whispered, his own emotions quickly catching up to him. "I've got you; I'm here. You're safe."

And he vowed that John would stay that way.

Like a mother would her child, Sherlock rocked his broken friend back and forth, rubbing small circles on the doctor's back while holding on tightly. He was content with the prospect of never letting go.

As the hour ticked by, John eventually cried himself to sleep. Even through the man's worn-down psyche, he still had seemed to express embarrassment at appearing vulnerable and weak; but Sherlock thought nothing of weakness. Just of guilt and repose.

John had made it home alive, but there was an unfathomable amount of healing to be done. Sherlock was ready for the challenge, though; anything for his blogger.

But most preponderant was the issue of Moriarty.

A problem easily solved.

Blood would definitely be shed.

* * *

***in Tina Belcher's voice* My heaaaaart.**

**Whether or not it's any good, this chapter hurt to write. Ow.**

**(Remember: I love reviews. ;) )**


	38. Undercover

**So, after the last one-shot, I felt like we needed something lighthearted.**

**Or a little bit less depressing, anyway.**

**So here's this chapter. :)**

**Thanks to Sherlockanity for the prompt.**

* * *

"I am _not_ wearing this."

"It will be more convincing if you do."

"Then _you_ be the waiter."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you're the social one."

John raised a finger to accompany his impending argument, but sighed and let it fall back down to his side.

"Dammit," he grumbled. "Fine."

He brushed off the childish smirk on Sherlock's face as he ripped the outfit on the hanger from the detective's outstretched hand.

"But I won't wear the bowtie."

"You will if you want my staff to buy this whole façade," a Mister Chef Michel said as he snuffed his cigarette out in his ashtray. "And, Mister Holmes, if you're going to play dishwasher, I'll need you to wear the apron."

"I don't need it," Sherlock insisted. "I'm perfectly content wearing my dress shirt."

"Doctor Watson wears the vest and bowtie, you wear the apron. That's what it's going to take." Michel snorted. "And a hairnet."

John chortled himself.

"Tell me about it. Those damn curls clog the drain all the time."

"Please John," Sherlock tightened his lips. "That is quite enough."

"I second that," Michel said. "Now you two: get dressed. Your shifts begin at six."

"As does the slow and agonising death of my dignity," John griped. "A bloody bowtie. And green, nonetheless."

"And what is the matter with green?" Michel asked, narrowing his eyes.

"My partner is simply concerned that the bowtie will verify the common assumption that he is a homosexual." Sherlock crossed his arms. "He is quite fond of perpetuating stereotypes."

John put a hand on his hip.

"You know..."

Michel interjected.

"You both have ten minutes. You might be running an undercover operation, but I'm running a business."

As he walked out of the room, Sherlock added under his breath:

"A subpar eating establishment."

John rolled his eyes and pushed past his flatmate.

"Just get dressed."

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, before you resume your work, I would like you to know that we have two new additions to our staff; do not be thrown off guard. This is our new dishwasher, David Holbach, and our waiter, Ray Sterling." Michel sniffed. "Now that that's out of the way: get moving! We have customers to please!"

And the chef walked off to his office.

"Well, John, I suppose you ought to take your place outside the kitchen," Sherlock said whilst nudging his rather irate companion.

"I still don't understand why I had to be the one to wear this ridiculous outfit," John muttered.

"They all have to, Sterling," the hostess snapped at the doctor, purposefully running into him to convey her obvious contempt.

"And what kind of a name is 'Ray Sterling'?" John continued, simply passing the woman a harsh glare.

"A ridiculous one," Sherlock admitted. "But you were given the option to choose an alias for yourself. You passed up that opportunity."

"Speaking of which," John crossed his arms, "'David Holbach'? How subtle, Sherlock. Really."

The detective shrugged.

"I admire Baron d'Holbach's atheistic philosophy."

"Holbach! Sterling! Get to work!" Michel shouted from across the kitchen, startling the other cooks.

Exchanging an exasperated look, Sherlock and John parted ways, the doctor taking his place in the dining area and the detective taking his place in the dining area and the detective taking his beside the sink.

The game was on; sort of.

* * *

John looked about the dining room, sweat coating his brow as he realised what a discombobulated mess this whole operation was.

Going undercover in a restaurant to catch a murderer? Neither he nor Sherlock were very experienced in the art of customer service; they would certainly stick out like sore thumbs. And besides, they were just _assuming_ there was a murderer. The case involved missing persons. For all they knew, some poor bastards were being held at gunpoint in an abandoned warehouse somewhere. But Sherlock was insistent that these were murders; all of the victims loved dining at this restaurant.

John suddenly tensed at the sight of the same hostess who had antagonised him before approaching him with an alarming amount of frustration radiating off her person.

"Sterling," she whispered at him.

Well, stretching the definition of 'whisper' a little bit.

"Look, you're new, so slacking is understandable. But here if you stand around with your jaw hanging open like that all evening, you'll be dropped faster than you can count to three."

"High stakes job, then?" John said with a rush of air.

The hostess let out an exhausted breath.

"You wouldn't even believe." She bit her lip. "Sorry about my churlish behaviour earlier, Sterling. I'm just really-"

"Stressed?" John assumed.

She laughed.

"That's a delicate way of putting it. Working for Michel is as stressful as it is frustrating. He's a smart man, I know, but his standards are far too high. And he hardly spends much time socialising with the lot of us. The only words he's ever directed towards me have been shouted."

"Not even a friendly 'you're hired'?" John joked.

"Please; I was here long before he even came close to becoming head chef. Can you believe the man's only twenty four?"

"Seriously? How did he become head?"

"Chef Gardener, the former head, loved him. It surprised all of us, considering that Michel was only the butcher. But I guess he had some more culinary experience than we'd assumed." She shook her head. "That man pretty much leaves us to our own devices while he locks himself away in his office."

"Not very social, then," John remarked. "Or kind. I gathered that."

"It's funny; you and Holbach are the first hires he's made personally," the hostess said.

With a shrug, she brushed off her black dress.

"Anyway, we should get to work." She pointed at a table not too far off from them. "Take care of those two. It's hard to get a reservation here due to our reputation as having "excellent customer service", so they'll be expecting just that."

Before the hostess turned on her heel to tend to the next party that had come in at the head of the restaurant, John called to her:

"I didn't catch your name."

The hostess turned to look over her shoulder and smiled.

"Eliza. Eliza Mannard."

And she returned to her position at the front door.

Plastering on a smile, John clasped his hands behind his back and approached the table Eliza had pointed him to. And with a deep breath…

"Good evening to you both," he said to the couple. "How are you?"

"Two waters and your finest bottle of wine," the patron ordered for himself and his female companion.

John tightened his lips, still holding onto his smile, and nodded.

"Right away."

Someone was apparently too busy trying to get into his date's pants to act like a polite human being. But, being the "lowly waiter", John ran back to the kitchen and fetched the desired beverages and ran back out to the table.

"There," he said, placing the wine bottle and water glasses on the table.

The male diner gave him a dirty look after seeing what had been laid down in front of him.

"And we're supposed to drink the wine using what exactly?"

John saw his flatmate waving him over through the kitchen doors.

"Use your imagination," he said passively before jogging back to the kitchen.

Before he could question the absence of his companion, said companion grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the side behind a rack of various pots and pans, well-concealed from the staff.

"What is it?" John asked the detective. "Found something?"

"Whilst examining the cutlery, yes. I noticed a small trace of flesh on one of the butcher's knives."

John raised an eyebrow.

"So? We're in a kitchen."

"And skin. Human skin."

"Sherlock, are you sure?"

"Quite so. Additionally, the knife was hastily rinsed off under the faucet; I could tell from the water droplets on its handle."

"So you're telling me that you think the murderer is using this restaurant's kitchen knives to kill his victims? And that he's one of the staff members?" John said this all rather matter-of-factly, but frowned at the sudden realisation of the morbidity of what he had said. "Jesus Christ, the murderer is one of the staff!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, John, very good. Such a truth does not need to be projected for all to hear."

"Sorry," John said. "But what do we do?"

"You continue acting," Sherlock told his friend. "I'll continue dishwashing until I can take a good look in the freezer."

"And why would you want to do that?"

Sherlock hardened his gaze.

"Storage."

"My God." John peered around the corner of the pot rack, eyeing at each chef running around. "Who do you suppose is the culprit?"

"That's what I'm intent on discovering."

John furrowed his brow and slowly faced his partner again.

"This might be a ridiculous thought, but I just had an interesting conversation with the hostess, Eliza, about Michel. The man apparently keeps to himself and was a butcher here for a while before becoming head chef."

"Interesting," Sherlock said. "Excellent work, John. That is vital information."

John blushed from the praise.

"Yeah, but we don't even know if he has a motive."

"That all comes later," Sherlock told him. "For now, I must focus on gaining access to that freezer."

"Sterling!" a male voice rattled in John's ear.

The doctor closed his eyes and sighed.

"What?"

Another waiter looked behind the rack to see both John and Sherlock's huddle.

"Really you two? Right now?"

John turned red and stood up straight.

"No! We weren't... we aren't-"

"I don't care," the waiter held up a hand. "Whatever you're into is fine by me. But you've got an angry customer who's been waiting for your service for about ten minutes now."

"He can't wait another five?" John asked.

"You can finish your little wank-fest after hours. This man is paying good money; or he will as long as he's fed."

"Couldn't you just... take care of him for me?"

The waiter put his hands on his hips.

"I'm rather busy myself."

"Fine," John groaned.

As soon as the waiter left, the doctor leaned down to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"If you get into trouble, you know what to do."

With Sherlock's nod of understanding, John returned to the dining area, once again putting on a fake (and this time apologetic) smile.

"So sorry for the delay," he said to the same man. "We're a bit, um-"

"I don't really care," the patron growled.

John saw the man's date out of the corner of his eye; she was impatiently drumming her acrylic nails on the tablecloth.

"Okay. I'm assuming you're ready to order?" he asked both of the diners.

"The Rotisserie Chicken for me and a tossed green salad for her," the man ordered.

"I don't want that," his date argued.

She tapped John's shoulder, prompting the doctor to face her direction.

"Get me the Fettuccine Alfredo. Extra parmesan."

"That'll destroy your figure," the man snapped.

"I'll destroy _you_ if you don't shut the hell up!"

John stood awkwardly as he dreaded the impending domestic.

He wondered if servers regularly put up with this sort of thing.

"What are you still doing here?" the male customer hissed at the doctor. "I thought we ordered."

"Rotisserie Chicken and Fettuccine Alfredo. Right," John said.

"Garden salad."

"I believe the lady requested Fettuccine," John insisted.

"I most certainly did," the woman agreed. "Ignore my boyfriend; he's an arse."

"Who's paying for this whole bloody meal!" the boyfriend said.

"And what? That means you're entitled to treat me like an underling? I don't think so."

"If you have such a big problem with dinner, Missy, we can leave right now."

"Please," John begged under his breath.

"The restaurant or each other?"

"I'll let you both think on that while your food is being prepared," John said.

"Excuse me?" the couple seemed to ask in unison.

"Sarcasm is one more service I offer," the doctor smiled.

And he turned on his heel to return to the kitchen. He had only been a waiter for twenty minutes and he was already fed up with every patron here.

Pun intended.

For another hour, John ran about the restaurant, becoming a bit more comfortable with the job of taking orders but still hating the amicability he had to force. Every table seemed to have no regard for his humanity, speaking to him as if he were more of a dog than one of their species. Nevertheless, he kept handing orders to the kitchen and taking more from other customers. The work became so automatic he almost forgot that he was undercover. As far as he and his nametag were concerned, his name was Ray Sterling. And he was a waiter.

God, Sherlock needed to hurry up.

The same couple from earlier summoned him.

"You!" the man shouted, snapping his fingers.

At the end of his tether, John answered the call quite tersely.

"Aren't you a black hole of need?" he said with yet another smile as he came over to the table, lacing the comeback with as much of a friendly tone as he could.

"Cheque," the man commanded, ignoring the bitterness.

"I think the phrase is 'cheque _please_', but close enough I suppose."

"What are you saying?"

The man's girlfriend, Missy, crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair.

"Ernest, don't act like the tough guy we both know you aren't," she said with an eye-roll.

"Missy, I swear to God..."

"What? Are you going to hit me or something?"

Ernest fisted his hands into the tablecloth.

"I just might if you don't hold your bloody tongue."

Like a child might, Missy stuck out her tongue and pinched it with her right index finger and thumb.

John snorted.

"You think this is funny, mate?" Ernest snarled, throwing an angry look at the doctor.

"Honestly? I think it's ridiculous. You two are practically a caricature of bad relationships."

"Piss off!"

Eliza the hostess, who had managed to blend in with everyone else at the restaurant, hesitantly stepped towards John and the couple, anticipating the conflict ahead.

"Gladly," John said. "I'll come back with your cheque."

"Good thing, too. And you can forget about the ten percent tip you need to live!" Ernest added.

John leaned down so that his nose was mere inches from the man's and put on the deadliest expression he could manage.

"Keep in mind that I'm an ex-army doctor who is perfectly capable of breaking every bone in the human body while naming them. I'd show some respect."

"Is that a threat?" Ernest chuckled nervously.

"A friendly reminder. Mate." John stood up straight and smiled once more. "Like I already said: I'll return with your cheque."

As John left the couple behind him to gape, he was yanked aside by Eliza.

"What the hell was that all about?" she asked him. "Did you actually threaten him?"

"He needed to be put in his place," John sniffed.

"_You_ need to be put in _your_ place!" Eliza hissed. "I hate to sound mean, but your job as a waiter is to serve customers with a cordial attitude, no matter the type of person they may be. I get it; he was being an arsehole. But that doesn't mean you threaten to... what was it?"

"Break every bone in his body."

"Yeah, that! What the hell is the matter with you, Ray?"

"That isn't my name," John muttered.

"What?" Eliza looked at him in disbelief.

Suddenly, there was an incredibly loud crash from the kitchen.

"VATICAN CAMEOS!" Sherlock's voice boomed throughout the restaurant.

John sped into the kitchen like a rocket.

Sherlock was engaged in intensive hand-to-hand combat with Chef Michel, armed with a frying pan as his shield as Michel swung a butcher knife at him.

"Sherlock!" John cried, shoving scared staff members aside.

Grabbing a meat thermometer off the counter, the doctor came up behind Michel and stabbed the instrument through his shoulder, pleased at the shout of pain it elicited from the cook. John threw the man aside and put a protective hand on his flatmate's chest.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John frantically asked his friend.

Expecting some sort of response to his question, John was thrown off-guard by Sherlock screaming a warning at him.

"John!"

The doctor turned around to find Michel's hand grabbing his neck and slamming him down on the counter, immediately knocking the wind out of him.

"Bloody hell," John rasped.

With a grunt, the doctor balled his hand into a fist and swung it at the murderous chef, alarmed when the attack was easily deflected, Michel's hand moving from his neck to the wrist, suspending his fist. Sherlock tried to aid the army doctor, but was quickly shoved aside by Michel. John, seeing an opening, went to resume his fighting stance, balling his left hand yet again, but Michel quickly whipped around and pinned him down again, taking great care to restrain the doctor's hand.

"I don't think so," the cook said.

After dramatically raising the butcher knife in his hand, Michel brought the blade down on John's outstretched fingers.

And people started screaming.

"John!" Sherlock yelled.

Poor John was in too much pain to let a single sound come from his vocal cords. He couldn't bring himself to look over at his hand, nor could he make a move to defend himself from Michel's next attack. All he could do was lie, paralysed, against the counter. He barely registered the fact that Michel was aiming the knife blade over his head.

Thankfully Sherlock, perfectly timed, had grabbed the frying pan he'd earlier thrown aside and struck Michel over the back of the head before the man even had a chance to take John's life.

The chef went down in a heap, his knife clattering beside him.

And that was that.

John swallowed a hard lump in his throat, suppressing nausea, as he slid onto the floor, shakily resting himself on his haunches when he landed.

"Let me see," he heard Sherlock command him.

Trembling, John showed his companion his injured hand, and Sherlock went pale.

All four of John's fingers on his left hand were gone; cleanly chopped off. The two men knew the missing phalanges were still on the counter behind them; onlookers definitely knew too. Some patrons had run in to watch the fight, and at least two of them were on the floor, having fainted. A few people had run out of the kitchen to vomit somewhere. Mostly, people just stared, horrified, at the sight of John's severed fingers on the kitchen counter, blood seeping into spilt piles of chopped lettuce.

One could say the sight was darkly hilarious.

Eliza slowly approached John and Sherlock, still trying to wrap her head around this absolute insanity, her hand clasped over her mouth.

"I..." she started, not sure where to start. "...do you... should I grab some... some ice?"

Sherlock looked up at her and nodded quickly before tearing a piece of his apron off and wrapping it around John's bleeding hand.

"Somebody dial an ambulance," Sherlock shouted at the group of bystanders.

John bit his lip as he focused on controlling his breathing and distracting himself from the pain.

"Jes-s-s-us," the doctor stuttered.

"Reattachment is entirely possible," Sherlock looked at him, putting an upward inflection on 'possible' as if the statement were a question. He was looking for verification.

"Hmhm," John nodded. "Yeah. Baggie for fingers." He swallowed again. "And put on ice."

Eliza shuffled back over with a bowl of ice and set it on the floor as she crouched down beside the two men.

"Will he be alright?" she asked, giving the doctor a pitying look.

"Plastic bags. Now," Sherlock told her.

Again, Eliza ran across the kitchen to fetch the needed item, this time leaving Sherlock to phone Lestrade. As the hostess returned with bags, she caught the final stages of Sherlock's conversation with the detective inspector on the other end.

When he hung up, she handed him the plastic bags.

"Here," she said.

"Keep him upright," Sherlock told her. "Make sure he stays conscious."

Quickly, the detective worked to gather John's fingers and place them in individual sandwich bags, his years of work with corpses and cadavers advantageously hardening his stomach for such an activity.

"Who was that you were talking to? On the phone?" Eliza asked him as she propped John up against the counter. "Someone... Lestrade, was it?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, yes. What of him?"

Eliza looked at him confusedly.

"Detective Inspector?"

"Yes. We've established that."

Eliza looked down at the floor, processing this information.

"You're no dishwasher, are you? And he obviously isn't any sort of waiter," Eliza gestured to the detective and John. "So who are you, exactly?"

"Does that matter?" Sherlock grumbled as he plopped the now sealed bags in the bowl of ice.

"To me it does. I would like to know who the hell you two are so this makes sense to me."

With an annoyed sigh, Sherlock resumed his position as John's primary caretaker and prepared himself for a long introduction.

"I am consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is my loyal companion and blogger, Doctor John Watson." He held his friend up by the shoulders. "We've been undercover."

Eliza was flabbergasted.

"And do close your jaw; the sight of your tongue isn't desirable at the present moment," Sherlock snapped at her.

"But... why? I mean... undercover?" Eliza questioned him.

"Read Doctor Watson's blog. I'm sure you'll find the entry within a month or so." Sherlock, with the help of the hostess, lifted John onto his feet, preparing himself to support the doctor's weight. "Now if you would kindly clear a path to the door and grab that bowl, I need to escort my friend to the approaching ambulance."

* * *

"I hate this," John said, picking at the gauze immobilising his recently operated upon fingers. "I absolutely hate this."

Sherlock flipped through another page in his book and raised an eyebrow, not tearing his attention from the novel.

"As do I, John. But a successful reattachment of every four of your severed fingers is something to be celebrated."

"Last night was just a mess," John sighed. "Bloody ridiculous."

"As your expansive list of grievances with the work of the service industry has made quite clear." Sherlock snorted. "You obviously aren't a born waiter."

"That one couple, though. Jesus," John laughed. "Never in my life has my inner serial killer been more inspired. And that's coming from someone who's lived with you and has had more than one encounter with Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock smirked.

"I suppose now you can understand my utter contempt for most of the human race."

"Oh stop. You care enough that you solve crimes for a living."

Sherlock hummed in response.

"Excuse me?" came a woman's voice from the open door, accompanied by a knock.

Eliza walked in bearing a large box of chocolates and a smile.

"Sorry to burst in like this; I'll only be a minute." She set the chocolates on John's bedside table and crossed her arms.

"Eliza?" John questioned, a bit surprised by the visit.

"Hi, Doctor Watson." Noting the man's look of confusion, Eliza looked over to Sherlock who was still buried in his book. "He told me who you are."

John nodded.

"Ah. I see."

"He didn't tell me why you two were undercover, though. But I imagine it had something to do with the human body parts they found in the freezer." Eliza's knees weakened at the recollection. "The restaurant is being shut down until further notice. So I'm out of a job."

"Christ I'm sorry," John said guiltily.

"Nah, it's alright. I've been looking into maybe grabbing a spot at Angelo's for a while, anyway."

John beamed.

"That would be fantastic if you would. Sherlock and I go there all the time."

"I'll have to tell Angelo I know you, then," Eliza laughed. "Maybe boost my chances at getting the job." She let her arms fall to her side with a sigh. "Well, I suppose I ought to ah... you know."

"Right, right. Of course," John assured her. "This whole situation has been a bit overwhelming for all of us."

"Yeah. But I'll... I'll be looking at your blog. You know, until you update."

John looked down at his bandaged hand.

"That... that might be a while."

"I'll wait," Eliza shrugged. "Anyway, it was nice seeing you Doctor Watson."

"Please; most people just use my first name."

Eliza nodded.

"Right... John."

With one last wave, she left the room.

"I believe I'm in need of caffeine," Sherlock yawned not too long after. "Would you like some as well?"

"A nap is what I need. Feel free to stay or go; whatever you want to do," John waved him off.

"Right," Sherlock said, setting his book aside and walking out of the room.

As the detective made his way to the cafeteria, he (quite literally) bumped into Eliza.

"Sorry!" the woman apologised. "My fault." She looked up and smiled. "Oh. Mister Holmes. Funny seeing you here," she joked.

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Hardly coincidental..."

"Never mind," Eliza shook her head.

As she started off toward the elevator, she stopped.

"Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock groaned internally.

"Yes?"

"Are you and Doctor... John, I mean... an, um... an item?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, are you both... in a relationship? Romantic, I mean. I mean, of course it's fine if you are; I don't mind that sort of thing. I'm just-"

"No, we're not." Sherlock looked almost offended by the question.

"Oh, okay. Good." Eliza blushed. "I mean, fine. Very well. Fine, fine. That's... fine."

"I will notify him that you've left him your number in the chocolate box," Sherlock told the woman before turning to walk down to the cafeteria by way of he stairs.

As he strode down the hall, he knew in his head that the first thing he needed to do before John woke was to dispose of Eliza Mannard's phone number.

The last thing he needed was another pesky girlfriend infiltrating his and John's lives.

Well, mostly his.


	39. Sting

**The last few chapters have been a bit heavy, I've noticed, in terms of the subject matter. Now, I know I lied last chapter, but I promise that this time I'm telling the truth when I say that this one-shot is lighthearted. Sure, there's whump, but it's pretty tame. ;)**

**Ahem. Moving on.**

**I would like to thank SaphireInTheSky, Manon de Sercoeur, and a guest reviewer for this prompt.**

* * *

John woke with a start to his alarm clock, cursing the harsh grinding effect its screeching had on his poor skull.

"Hell," he slurred, rolling over to shut it off.

He clumsily pressed the button once, annoyed when it didn't work. Again he tried, only to find himself faced with the same problem. A third time proved just as useless. Over and over John attempted to shut his alarm off, the beeping seemingly becoming louder and louder as he did so. Finally, out of exasperation and impatience, the doctor reached over and yanked the clock's cord out from the wall outlet, putting a blissful end to the thing's persistent wailing.

Sighing, John sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, resenting the fact that he had to be up and about at four in the morning because of work. But then again, he thought, Sherlock wasn't going to pay their rent or buy the food; this job was necessary to keep both himself and the detective alive. Of course, Mrs. Hudson was always there to help, but she was their landlady; her services were somewhat limited. So, laying all resentment aside, John stood up and shuffled into his bathroom.

A shower was absolutely necessary after the night he'd had. Stopping an impending bank robbery with only his Browning and Sherlock's wit had proved itself to be quite difficult, especially given the fact that there had been six men against the mere two of them. How he and his flatmate had managed to get out of that scrape was nothing short of a miracle; turns out that two shots in two of the men's kneecaps and poorly executed backfire on the side of the robbers had wasted enough time for the police to arrive before any actual damage to the bank could be done.

Of course, the bad aim of those men didn't mean that their brawn was negligible. Before the gunfight, one of the lookouts had caught John in the thigh with a crowbar; he'd also been the first to have his kneecap destroyed. A well-deserved punishment.

John knew, however, that after that debacle he reeked of sweat and blood. He desperately needed to clean himself before showing up to the clinic.

After shedding his clothes, he went to step into the bath and turn on the shower. But pulling back the curtain convinced him to change plans.

"You're kidding me," he sighed.

There was mould covering the inside of the tub; obviously one of Sherlock's damn projects.

"One of these days, I swear I'll strangle him," John muttered to himself. "But not today."

Grumbling still, he grabbed his robe from the hook on the bathroom door and shrugged it on, frustratedly tying the belt in a loose knot around his waist.

Apparently he was using the downstairs shower now.

He trudged down the stairs, still groggy from a lack of a full night's sleep, all going well until he hit the last step and slipped and fell ungracefully onto the floor.

"Dammit," he hissed, clutching his rump. "I hate these bloody stairs."

"John, I do hope you haven't gone and shattered your tailbone," Sherlock called from somewhere down the hallway, the condescension in his voice hardly concealed.

"Piss off, I'm fine," John responded.

The doctor stood up slowly and brushed himself off with a huff before proceeding to complete his voyage. The bathroom door, he noticed, was shut and locked.

"Hey, get out," he called through the wooden barrier, knocking on its exterior.

"I'm busy," the detective said.

"Does it sound like I'm in any sort of mood to give a damn?"

"My emotional quotient isn't exactly "up to par", as the phrase goes, John, so I've absolutely no idea."

"Imagine that," John scoffed. "Sherlock, open the door; I need a shower."

"And I explained to you that I'm busy."

"Don't make me break this door down."

"You won't."

"I absolutely will."

"You're more concerned with the price of our rent than exfoliation."

"Sherlock Holmes, if you think I'm bluffing-"

"You are."

"-you've got another think coming."

John could practically hear the sound of his flatmate's eyes rolling as the door was, thankfully, unlocked and opened, said man appearing before him wearing protective gloves.

"Might you require me to write a dissertation explaining to you why I am reluctant to allow you to shower in this bathroom?"

"I get it; you're busy. And whatever you're busy with is none of my concern. But my shower is out of order due to the mould you've decided to grow in the bathtub, so I'm out of options."

"Use the sink," Sherlock said.

"Move," John pushed him aside.

With a grunt of frustration, John walked towards the shower and yanked back the curtain, startled when he was greeted by a swarm of bees buzzing about a beekeeping hive.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what in God's name is this?!" he exclaimed.

"I never imagined that using the names of four rather large Biblical figures in vain so succinctly was possible," Sherlock remarked. "But to answer your rather pointless question, it's a beehive. And those are bees."

"I know that, you git! Why?"

"We haven't a yard."

"Why are you keeping bees at all?"

"Fresh honey," Sherlock shrugged. "And besides, they really are fascinating creatures."

"Why wouldn't you tell me?" John asked, quickly stepping away from the swarm.

"Why would I?"

"Because I live here! And... bees, Sherlock; bees!"

"What exactly is the point you're trying to make?"

"They're bees!"

A lone one of said insects began flying around John, and the doctor instinctively swatted.

"Yes, we've established that. Your point, John, please. Are you hourly?"

John, panicking, swatted at the persistent bee invading his space before balling his hands into fists at his sides.

"If you actually thought to tell me about this beforehand, you'd know that I'm a- son of a bitch!" he cried, clutching his right arm.

"There really is no need for self-deprecation," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"No, no, no. Shite, shite, shite," John swore.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the dead bee on the floor.

"You were stung."

"Thanks for pointing that out." John swore again and pushed past the detective, running down the hall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed him.

"John, there's no pressing need for you to-"

"I'm allergic, arsehole!"

Sherlock was suddenly quite alert.

"How severe are your reactions?" he asked, running up the stairs to John's room where the doctor had fled.

"I've only had one, and that was when I was six! But given the tightness I'm starting to feel in my chest, I'd say-"

"Anaphylaxis. Right." Sherlock ran into John's bathroom and noticed that the doctor was hunched over the sink, trying to control his breathing. "John?"

"Just... here," John handed Sherlock an orange Epipen from his open med-kit.

"What...? I-"

"999. If things get really bad before EMTs arrive... I'm assuming you know... what to do."

"Thigh, ninety-degree angle, then followed by placing you in a horizontal position and elevating the lower half of your body until medical help arrives. I know. But surely it won't-"

"Sherlock, please shut up and help me downstairs."

With a silent nod, Sherlock aided his now wheezing friend down the stairs (had the descent always been this arduous?) into the sitting room.

"Sofa," John said.

"I'm not an idiot, John." Trying to be gentle, the detective set his companion down on the couch, holding him upright in an effort to keep him lucid. "Will you stay conscious?"

John gave the man a withering look.

"Don't," Sherlock scoffed. "I'll be on the phone only a moment."

Keeping a hand on John's shoulder, Sherlock dialled 999 and waited impatiently for an operator to pick up. When they finally had, the detective gave them no time to speak.

"Apitoxin poisoning," he said into the phone, firm and professionally. "The sting occurred exactly seven minutes ago, the location being the right bicep. The victim is John Hamish Watson, healthy male, aged forty-two, weighs approximately sixty-six kilograms, stands at one hundred and sixty-seven centimetres, blood type A positive. His last known allergic reaction was at age six. I imagine I'll be using this Epipen he's given me shortly, so I expect an ambulance here at our address in no more than seven minutes. Is that all clear?"

The operator was stunned for a moment.

_"I- yes, of course. I'll dispatch an ambulance. Are you able to give me your name and address?"_

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Be punctual; time is of the essence."

After swiftly hanging up the phone, Sherlock grabbed the Epipen from his pocket and showed it to John.

"This," he said, "When exactly am I to use it?"

John's eyes and lips were already swelling exponentially.

"Now," he rasped.

Sherlock tightened his lips.

"But to save more time-"

"_Now_."

Refraining from further argument, Sherlock took hold of John's leg with one hand and plunged the pen into the meat of his already bruised thigh with the other, holding it there for ten seconds as per instructions. He then removed it and quickly threw it to the side, proceeding to massage the recently assaulted area of John's thigh, hoping to encourage the movement of the adrenaline.

"'kay," he heard John say.

That was his cue to help his friend lie down.

"Do you have another pen?" Sherlock asked the doctor as soon as the man's head had hit the pillow and he'd elevated his legs.

John nodded his head, shakily pointing in the direction of the stairs.

"If gets worse," he said.

"You mean to say that if your symptoms get worse I should use the other pen, correct?"

This was confirmed with another nod.

"So... now what?"

"Wait."

"That's all?" Sherlock growled. "Very well. Just do try not to lose consciousness. Or, worse yet, die. Death via allergic reaction can't at all be dignifying."

Even though John was quite close to vomiting from a mixture of stomach pain and dizziness, he couldn't help but roll his eyes. Dignity was perhaps all that Sherlock worried about. But then again, the man wasn't wrong; dying from a bee sting wouldn't exactly look too respectable on a tombstone.

Christ, where was that ambulance?

* * *

John was home after about a day of careful examinations and a good amount of rest. Of course, he never ended up making it to work, but that was the least of his concerns. After all, he'd be needing to take it easy for another few days in order to fully recover.

And he still really needed that shower.

Sherlock, who had been frequently in and out during visiting hours, came by at the end of that Wednesday morning to escort John home, both he and the doctor refusing wheelchair transport out of the hospital as they made the effort to check out.

The cab ride home was a silent one, John awkwardly bobbing his left leg up and down, rubbing his right one with his hand as he felt the effects of the abuse it had taken over the course of two days: First the damn crowbar, then that jarring fall on the stairs, and then of course the Epipen.

Finally the cab pulled up in front of the flat, and John was home again, ready to scrub the oil from his hair and body and feel fresh again.

Sherlock made a point to run ahead of him upstairs; why, John didn't care to know. But, inevitably, he found out.

Sherlock quickly stepped out of the bathroom with his hand behind his back, his signature innocent smile etched onto his face.

"The bathroom is in order now," he said.

"What's that you're holding?" John inquired, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's concealed hand.

"Just..." Sherlock held out his palm, the dead bee from the other day lying expectedly motionless. "I neglected to remove him from the room before your return home."

"Right," John said. "So... they're gone? All of them?"

"From the bathroom? Yes."

John narrowed his eyes.

"The phrasing of that leads me to believe that they're still here in the flat."

"That's because they are."

"Dammit, Sherlock," John groaned.

"But that's only because my father is driving into the city tomorrow to take them home with him."

"Your what now?"

John looked nonplussed, slightly slack-jawed after hearing the news.

"My father. Was I not clear the first time?"

John laughed.

"No, it's just... you never look at a man like you and automatically think: "He has parents." You just don't seem the type to..."

"Have parents?" Sherlock questioned, puzzled by the level of John's surprise.

"I mean, that's a poor way of wording it but... yeah, I guess. Parents are just such an ordinary thing. And you're-

"Extraordinary."

"Your humility astounds me, Sherlock, truly."

Sherlock smirked at this sarcastic response.

"So, they're into beekeeping, then? Your parents, I mean."

"Yes. They are rather fond of the activity. Of course, they treat it as a mere hobby; a meditative exercise, if you will. But I, on the other hand, am drawn to it as a scientist."

"And as a man who really likes his honey."

"The honey is merely an added amenity."

John shook his head.

"So the bees will be gone tomorrow?"

"Yes. In the meantime, they'll be in my room."

"Aren't you worried about getting stung?"

"The only reason they would feel compelled to sting me would be if I were to irritate them by swatting at them or interfering with their daily activities in some other way. But since I scarcely do either," he said, making a point to emphasise the 'I' in his flatmate's presence, "I will likely have very few incidents."

"That was a partial jab at me," John said. "Don't think I missed that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Keep in mind that I wouldn't have even been swatting at bees in the first place, had you not decided that growing mould in *my* bathtub was a good idea. You might have even been able to slip the bees past me for a while before I even noticed." John crossed his arms. "Which brings me to my second point."

"If I might anticipate your second point and respond pre-emptively: a thousand apologies, John. Had I known you were so severely allergic to bee venom, I would not have brought them into the flat in the first place."

"Yes you would have."

"No, I wouldn't have. You seem to believe that I have no regard for your health, John, but I do. I resent the fact that I was nearly responsible for your death Monday morning. I don't enjoy watching you suffer."

"You know, in its own way, that's kind of sweet."

"However from a medical standpoint, observing anaphylaxis so closely is quite fascinating."

"...and now it isn't." John rolled his eyes. "I'm assuming that I'm safe to wash up in there?"

"Given the fact that the bees are locked away in my bedroom, I'd say so." Sherlock gestured to the bathroom. "At your leisure."

And with one last amicable smile, the detective resigned himself to the sitting room, perching himself on his chair and sinking into his own thoughts.

And John was free to, at last, take a shower.

Hell, after the Monday he had had, he was entitled to one.


	40. Just a Pint

**Thanks, Watsonmybae, for the prompt. :)**

* * *

John shuffled down Baker Street's sidewalk, feeling his eyelids droop with every slight step he took. His head was throbbing, his forearm ached, and most importantly, his stomach growled. He needed some food and a quick nap as soon as possible; his body demanded it. After finally making the trip to the door to 221B, he fumbled with his key and went to insert it into the lock on the door, the promise of some tea and biscuits keeping him from curling up right there on the stoop and resting. Before he could even begin to unlock the door, it was whipped open, Sherlock stepping through it and shutting it as he did so. The detective had a smirk on his face when he bumped into the doctor.

"Fantastic; you're on time," the detective said. "We've got work to do."

John sighed.

"Really? Right now?"

"Yes, of course right now. Why else would I be leaving the flat?" Sherlock asked him, with an even mix of sarcasm and genuine curiosity.

"Could I just have a quick nibble? I haven't had anything since-"

"Yes, breakfast, I know. You'll survive without a pack of crisps for the evening, though, I'm sure. "

"Sherlock…"

As John began to protest further, he was quickly shut up when his flat-mate grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back over to the street, hailing a cab.

"Ah! Christ!" John growled, his companion having jerked his recently injured arm. "Could you not do that?"

Sherlock opened the door to the cab that had, quite conveniently, pulled up in front of them.

"What was that, John?" he asked with an indifferent hum, climbing into the back of the car. "Are you coming?"

The doctor groaned and reluctantly clambered in after his friend, slamming the door behind him.

"I guess I am now."

"Scotland Yard, please," Sherlock commanded the cabbie.

And promptly, the car was steered away from the sidewalk and headed in the direction of the Yard.

John eyed the slight ledge the door provided; a wonderful headrest, he thought. And given the fact that his own head was spinning right now, he was keen on using the ledge to dose off. Just five minutes; that's all his body needed.

He began to speak to Sherlock.

"You know, Sherlock, I think I'm going to-"

"Lestrade has need of us in his office; he's unsure of where to turn next in the case of the murder of that executive and his secretary."

Well, sleep was off the table.

"Okay…" John mumbled. Then it registered with him exactly what the detective had said. "Wait, what? You're still on that case? I thought it was-"

"_Lestrade _thought it was the girl's husband; not me. Your suggesting otherwise is something that I find rather offensive."

"Right. Sorry." John pinched his nose in hopes of massaging away the feeling of daggers poking about at the back of his eyes. "Look, I hate to sound insensitive in regards to this case, but I could really use-"

"Caffeine. You've had a long day at work."

This was delivered as statement, not a question. And that irked John.

"Yeah, right; that's exactly what it is." The doctor grumbled. "More coffee. Great."

The cab came to a stop and, with a half-hearted 'thanks', Sherlock hopped out, leaving his much shorter and tired friend to scramble after him. The detective had gotten a good few feet away before John finally caught up to him, making the unwise decision of jogging on such an empty stomach. It took quite a bit of strength on John's part to not keel over.

"Okay, I'm going to ask you really nicely to not do that in the future," he told Sherlock.

"Do what?" Sherlock responded, eyes locked on the screen of his phone.

"You know what you did."

The two men walked through the doors of Scotland Yard, being instantly greeted by Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"There you are," the man sighed. He looked at John quizzically. "Hey there, John," he greeted.

"You look surprised to see me," John remarked.

"The inspector is easily caught off guard, John, as is made evident by this case of his." Sherlock gave said inspector a smug smile. "So glad you realised your mistake and called in my professional help."

"You can take that grandiosity and shove it up your arse later," Lestrade huffed. "Just follow me to my office."

And so, Sherlock and John, now being led by Greg Lestrade, walked past a multitude of frowning faces displayed by officers and IT people (obviously displeased at the return of Sherlock) to the inspector's office.

Lestrade sat down in his cushioned chair with an exhalation of breath and John and Sherlock stood in front of the desk to face the man. John teetered a bit, the heat of the room only making his dizziness worse.

"So, I'm officially stumped," Lestrade said. "I mean, the guy obviously died from an allergic reaction to the almonds in his coffee. But why was his secretary pushed from the bloody top-floor window?" He scratched his head. "I'm still trying to make sense of that. And her husband still claims that he wasn't there; he was golfing."

"Was he?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course not! We checked!"

"Do you think it is quite possible that the man is trying to cover up the fact that he too was having an affair?"

Greg looked shocked by this proposal.

"What? Why would he do that?"

John, still a bit uneasy, decided to try and distract himself by chiming in.

"Maybe because he's afraid that…" he stopped himself when he began to slur.

"That what, John?" Sherlock urged him, obviously expecting the correct response, judging by the way his eyes lit up.

"…that, um…" John blinked. "That his girl… his girlfriend… person… will be, ah… framed… yeah, framed. Right? Or blamed, I mean?"

"Yes…" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes, that is what I am led to believe. Are you quite well?" He scrutinised the doctor. "You certainly left this morning having had a good amount of food and rest. Yet you do look fatigued; more-so than you did on our way here."

Lestrade agreed, switching tracks from the case to this matter.

"Yeah, he's right, John; you kind of look a bit pale."

"If I had a penny…" John snorted. "Look, I'm fine; I'm alright. Just… carry on with this whole discussion, yeah?"

"Do you want to sit down?" Lestrade asked, offering his chair.

"Leave it alone, Greg," John insisted.

"Right," Sherlock shook his head, easily doing so himself. "What John said; about the case, of course."

The inspector knitted his brow in thought.

"Yeah, okay, I guess that's possible. But what else have we got to go by besides this guy? No one signed in to meet with Liam at the secretary's desk. That leads _me _to believe that only someone who was really close to the secretary would be able to get inside the office."

"How on earth is that a sensible conclusion?" Sherlock chided. "There are an unbelievable amount of holes to identify; most notably this: why in God's name would this secretary feel compelled to let the very man who she was _cheating _on enter her employer's office? The same employer with whom she was having relations with?"

"I mean…" Lestrade bit his lip. "What if she just… I don't know… thought they would talk it out? Or maybe she was hoping the three of them could… you know…?"

"Jesus, Greg," John groaned.

"Well, it's possible!" the inspector protested. "There are lots of twisted sex fiends out there! What about that Irene woman, Sherlock? What if this secretary-"

"This secretary is nothing like Ms. Adler, Lestrade, who I would prefer you avoid mentioning from now on," Sherlock snapped. "Now, I would simply like to inter whatever other input you have to offer before you get too carried away with any more of your 'theories', which all seem to reflect the sexual tension that exists between you and your own wife. Let us consider my hypothesis." Sherlock placed his hands behind his back. "It was the secretary herself. Only she would have known of Liam's intolerance to almonds, and therefore would have easily exploited this weakness; she likely hoped it would have appeared as an accident. This death would have allowed her inheritance of Liam's money and perhaps home. Did you check his will?"

Lestrade didn't respond.

"But… the window?" John interjected. "I mean, didn't she… wasn't she-?"

"Pushed? Perhaps. But keep in mind that there was quite a bit of spilt coffee on the floor; a smooth, linoleum floor. This would prove to be a safety hazard to anyone wearing heeled shoes. My theory is that, due to her rushing about the room to clean up whatever evidence she could, given the desk's close proximity to the windows overlooking the street, Cecilia slipped on a particularly wet patch of floor and, in trying to keep her balance, crashed through the thin glass of the window, subsequently falling to her death."

Lestrade sat for a moment, looking a bit overwhelmed and, quite frankly, defeated.

"That… that does sound a bit more plausible," he admitted, rubbing his stubbly jaw.

"Yeah, nice," John said, closing his eyes for a moment. "That was good."

Sherlock turned his attention once more to his friend.

"John, sit down. I haven't the slightest clue as to why you're in the state that you're in, but it is certainly disconcerting and annoying."

"You're… you dragged me…" John slurred, frustrated that he did so in such a way that his argument was completely unintelligible.

That damned light-headedness was back again.

"Stop…" John muttered to himself.

"What?" Sherlock questioned.

Lestrade stood from his chair, noticing that John really looked like he was going to collapse at any second.

"John?"

John took a deep breath and stood up straight, looking both his friend in the eye.

"Sorry. Fine now," he smiled.

And then he fell to the floor.

Sherlock cried out in alarm, quickly catching his flat-mate by the shoulders and lowering him to the ground.

"John!" he called out, lightly tapping the doctor on the cheek.

Lestrade practically jumped over his own desk before sliding down onto his knees next to the unconscious man.

"Have 999 ready on the phone!" Lestrade shouted through his office door.

"John…" Sherlock muttered, simultaneously taking note of the man's pulse and breathing rate. "Respiratory rate is normal. Pulse is alarmingly slow." He was suddenly overcome with the slightest bit of panic. "Exhaustion? Carbon monoxide?" He turned to the inspector. "That must be it; of course! Evacuate the building!"

Lestrade put a hand on John's shoulder and shot the detective an annoyed look.

"For God's sake, would you calm down? It's not carbon monoxide, you git; you know that."

John began to rouse, and Sherlock was the first to take action.

"John!" he said again, as if the name would speed up the doctor's recovery.

"Hm…?" John muttered. "Shit…"

With the help of both Sherlock and Lestrade, John sat up.

"When did I end up on the floor?"

"Are you ill?" Sherlock inquired, grabbing hold of John's shoulders and shaking them.

"What…?" John shook his head. "I… no. No I'm not. Can you just-"

"Poison? Heat stroke?" Sherlock scowled at Lestrade. "Turn the bloody heat down in here!"

"Sherlock!" both the inspector and John seemed to say in unison.

"What?"

"Relax," John said, struggling in Sherlock's tight grip. "I'm fine. It's all fine."

"Every time you say that the very opposite turns out to be the truth," Sherlock growled.

"Look, if you'll just calm down-"

"How can I? Time is of the-"

"I donated blood today, idiot!" John yelled over him.

Lestrade let out a sigh of relief that ended in a chuckle.

"Good God, mate. You had me thinking the worst."

Sherlock cocked his head at his friend.

"You… you donated…?"

"Blood, yes, Sherlock; my blood. It'd just been a while since I'd last done so, so the whole process was a bit taxing. Especially given the long day I'd had. And I was hoping to grab a bite to eat at home afterwards to keep _this _from happening, but then you whisked me away to Scotland Yard before I had much of a chance to protest."

Sherlock still stared confusedly at John.

"Why would you donate blood?"

Both Lestrade and John gave the man a look of disbelief.

"How… how is that even a legitimate question?" John asked.

"There are plenty of other people whose blood would have sufficed. Why yours? Haven't you lost enough in your lifetime?"

"What are you on about?" John asked.

"Not to mention the number of lives you save as a doctor already. You give enough of your time and your energy to saving lives. Why give your blood?"

Lestrade intervened.

"Sherlock, mate, it's a standard procedure. All they took was a pint."

"And it will take approximately sixteen weeks for him to regain the pint that was taken from him."

"Sherlock, you're overreacting," John rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. I just need a bit of food and sleep." He awkwardly patted Sherlock's shoulder whilst still being confined in the detective's tight grip. "Lestrade's right."

"I…" Sherlock blinked a bit. "Of course. Yes. I'm… I'm sorry."

John licked his lips.

"Yeah… could you let me go?"

"What was I doing?" Sherlock shook himself out of his frantic state, releasing John.

"Thanks," John grunted, rubbing at his forearm again. "So… do you two want to finish up here while I head home? Or, Sherlock, would you rather I stay here?"

Lestrade helped John stand up, making sure the doctor was steady on his feet before responding.

"You can head back home, John. Get some food in you. Sherlock can stay here and talk things through with me." The inspector grabbed his coat and gestured to the door. "Let me get you a cab."

"I shall do so myself," Sherlock said, opening the office door.

"What? But the case-"

"I assure you that it is the secretary," Sherlock told Lestrade. "Check Liam's will, take another careful look at Cecilia's desk; do what it is the lot of you do."

"But Sherlock, how can we be sure that it was her?"

"In the way I just described." He ushered John out the door. "In my eyes, the case is closed. As is this door in approximately three seconds." He nodded. "Good evening, Inspector."

And, as Sherlock had predicted, the door was closed, leaving behind it a flustered and frustrated Lestrade.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John whispered at his friend, trying to avoid the stares of the Yarders as they walked in the direction of the exit; John's fainting spell had obviously caused quite a bit of commotion.

"You need a cab," Sherlock said.

"Yeah; me, not you. Why are you tagging along?"

"I need to assure that you arrive home safely."

The two of them finally made it outside into the quickly approaching night, Sherlock holding up a hand to, once again, attract the attention of a cab.

"Wait a minute," John stopped him, grabbing the man's arm and yanking it down. "I want you to tell me what that was all about back there."

"What?"

"That episode of yours. I fainted, and you nearly had a nervous breakdown."

Sherlock took a moment before answering.

"Exactly; you fainted. I was simply confused. Surprised, if you will."

"You were shouting angrily about the fact that I donated some of my blood because, apparently, it's- no pun intended- so bloody precious."

Sherlock sighed.

"It's all a bit of a blur, John. But you're, as you so expertly put it, 'fine'. Let us dwell on the matter no longer."

John tightened his lips.

"Are you really that worried about my safety?"

Sherlock looked at the ground.

"Perhaps."

John smirked slightly.

"You know, as overbearing as it is, it's kind of nice to have you worry."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"'Nice'?"

"I mean, I don't know," John shrugged. "Call me a horrible person, but I find it kind of touching. Granted, a bit scary, but touching." He cleared his throat. "Anyway… I won't be going back to donate for a while; I have to give my body a break, after all. So there's no need to worry about that anymore."

Sherlock nodded.

"Good." The detective lifted his hand hesitantly. "Shall I call a cab?"

John sighed.

"Yeah. Go ahead."

And, just as quickly as earlier that evening, a cab came round, the detective and his blogger filing into the backseat to be transported back to Baker Street.


	41. Freezer Burn

**I know, I know; it's been a while. But here I am again! Hurray!**

**Watsonmybae gave me this prompt. :)**

* * *

John's head throbbed as he slowly came to, and he groaned quite loudly.

"What the hell...?" he slurred, his tongue feeling quite thick and dry inside his mouth; it almost felt as if it wasn't his own.

He lazily propped himself up on one hand and brought a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing at the soreness he felt there. He noticed that a small bump interrupted the usual smoothness of his skin.

"What the-?"

Though his mind was fuzzy, it still seemed to register the importance of trying to figure out what had happened.

And more importantly where in God's name he was; he was freezing.

"Jesus," he shivered, his chattering teeth making his head hurt even more.

He rapidly blinked away the fog that had clouded his vision and tried to take a good look around.

There was fluorescent lighting above him; obtrusive, oppressive, fluorescent lighting; that hurt his tired eyes. But through the white light, he managed to finally make out what looked like... was that meat?

Confused, he crawled forward on his hands and knees, not feeling very confident in his ability to stand up on his own two feet; not only was he incredibly dizzy, but his poor toes felt completely frozen. He reached out to touch the 'meat', confirming that it was such with his numb fingers.

"Christ," he groaned again, drawing back his hand to clutch his head.

Random thoughts swirled about in his dizzied brain, making his own process of deduction more difficult and tedious than usual.

Meat, cold _"freezing"_, unconsciousness, bump on the neck _"sore head; ow"_... He knew where he was, but he didn't _know_ where he was. It was something called a steak something-or-other _"no, meat"_; right, meat. Meat something... meat-

"Locker!" he exclaimed, feeling quite stupid for not having the answer right away. _"So damn stupid."_

So here he was; in a meat locker. But why? _How_? What in God's name was going on?

The bump on his neck had something to do with it, he figured.

A case? _"No, that makes no sense."_ But what if it was? What if he'd slipped and fallen whilst snooping around inside? _"No sense; not that."_

What else?

His senses were gradually coming back to him, as was his ability to create a coherent thought.

The bump on the neck... bumps could be left by small puncture wounds; like when a mosquito bites a person. So a puncture wound, maybe? Maybe a-

_"Syringe?"_

That made sense. But why? Syringes were used for vaccinations a lot...

_"Besides that; what else? What else?"_

What else? Medicine? No... yes... morphine...? Drugs, he supposed...

Wait... drugs...

_"Drugged!"_

That was it. That _had_ to be it; someone _must have_ drugged him.

It was the most logical conclusion so far.

Drugged, thrown into a meat locker...

Well, being drugged at all wasn't really good. But to find himself inside a freezer after the fact could only mean that the person who'd drugged him had the intention of-

_"Killing me."_

That was rather alarming.

No; _very_ alarming.

Of course, there was that possibility. But it was also quite possible that this was another game (likely one of Moriarty's) for Sherlock...

_"Sherlock!"_

John had completely forgotten!

Was he hurt? Had he been kidnapped as well?

_"No... he couldn't have been."_

If John's supposition that this was meant to be a game (a race against the clock, if you will) for his flatmate, then it would make no sense for the man to have been locked away as well... right?

John hoped so; he couldn't know for sure; he'd checked his pockets and his cell was missing. Even if he did have his phone, he probably wouldn't have a signal anyway.

"Damnit," he sighed through his chattering teeth.

He was stuck here. And trying the handle would do no good.

There was no handle for him to try.

He stood up and stumbled over to the freezer door, pounding on it with his fists.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey!"

He knew it was pointless.

With a frustrated sigh, he turned back to face the interior of the freezer, looking around in the hopes of finding some means of escape.

None.

He was stuck.

And all he could do was hope that Sherlock would find him.

* * *

'The Conundrum' had been the title this criminal chose.

Sherlock recalled how loudly he'd scoffed upon hearing the name, and still felt the same as he had those five days ago about it. Yet, despite the ridiculous self-bestowed nickname, he had to give the man credit; the puzzles so far had been rather difficult. There had been four up until just that morning; emails to him in all capital letters phrased in the style of a standard riddle that, if solved, would lead to the safety of the victim.

It wasn't as if this sort of thing was new to him, though. Puzzles? Bah! He'd "been there, done that", as the saying goes.

But when he awoke that morning, he found his flippancy was trumped by a sudden onslaught of alight panic when he found John missing and a new message in his inbox.

*_WOOLLY MAMMOTHS; GOOD FOR MEAT. ONCE KILLED AND STORED TO LATER EAT._

_NOW FUTURE'S HERE, THE PAST IS THROUGH; BUT I HAVE "KILLED" JOHN WATSON TOO._*

The first thought that had gone through Sherlock's head was:

_"What sort of riddle is that?"_

It seemed rather poorly worded, even for a riddle. Not to mention the fact that it _rhymed._

Rhyming, Sherlock always thought, should only be left to those who knew how to properly and artfully execute it; Shakespeare, for example. Everyday criminals oughtn't be trusted with art.

His criticism was also due in part to the fact that he was confused by the riddle; he hated confusion.

"What is this supposed to _mean_?" he growled.

John was in trouble, and he only had what likely amounted to a few hours before...

Sherlock hated to think about that. He couldn't; he needed to think.

Right now he was sat at the kitchen table, glaring at the sheet of paper on which he had written down the contents of the email. As he desperately picked apart the elements of the riddle, madly scribbling on the paper as he did so, there was a knock at the door (or, more precisely, the door frame).

"Yes, Lestrade, come in," Sherlock called out impatiently.

"I came as soon as I got your text," the inspector informed him.

"Not soon enough."

"Do you really think now's the time to patronise me?

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "Give me a moment to think."

Lestrade placed his hands on his hips.

"You're the one who called me here."

"And with good reason." Sherlock gave the man a penetrating stare. "Now shut up."

Though slightly miffed, the inspector obediently shut his mouth and took a seat at the table, more worried about John than anything else.

Sherlock took a deep breath and honed in on the riddle, trying to calm himself down; worrying only made proper brain function more difficult. And right now, he desperately needed a functioning brain.

After all, if today were anything like previous days had been so far, John only had until that evening.

* * *

John rubbed his hands together, his skin stinging from the freezing temperature in the meat locker. But as unpleasant as the sensation was, he knew it was a good thing that he could feel anything at all. He had been a bit worried before, given that everything had been quite numb, but he attributed that to the drug in his system; he had obviously managed to partially restore feeling in his various body parts, so that was a sign that he hadn't been in there for long upon waking up. But then again, he was wearing a jumper, so that might have helped tremendously with the warming up process.

_"Bastard didn't think of that, did he?"_

It suddenly occurred to him, though:

Why was the locker so damn cold?

John knew that meat wasn't to be kept at such a cold temperature as this; it would dry out.

"Stupid question," he told himself.

Why would he even ask that? This was the work of a criminal; obviously whoever was behind this turned down the temperature.

Reason seemed to be failing him.

God, how cold was it in here?

John estimated it to be at least -12 degrees centigrade. But then again, he wasn't quite sure.

He had found a seat upon a box in the freezer, which, though cold, was better than the floor. It sounded silly, but hypothermia was a serious risk; and he refused to die in a meat locker of all places.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll be fine."

He vigorously rubbed his arms to keep warm, the jumper becoming more and more useless as time went by.

God, what time was it? At least an hour had to have passed by now. Maybe two. If only he had his damn phone with him.

As he sat and shivered, he still was struggling to pick through his tired brain and remember what exactly it was that had gotten him here in the first place. Obviously a drug, he knew, but the events leading up to the fact were what bothered him.

His mind was just a mass of muscle full of jumbled thoughts and memories right now, only able to really focus on the one thing that mattered to his primal instinct; surviving.

Someone having to do with riddles, wasn't it? _"Emails, I think?"_ Sherlock was excited, things were busy, Lestrade was frustrated _"Puzzles, puzzles, puzzles..."_ Rhyming... _"Poems... rhyming. Shakespeare? No! Stop that!"_

What the hell was happening to him.

_"Hypothermia."_

Goddamnit. He didn't need this right now.

Well, no one ever really needs hypothermia, but...

_"Riddles and puzzles... Sherlock solving them."_

No murders, he was sure. Not yet.

_"Sherlock solved them all."_

Not the murders; the riddles.

_"Easy peasy, lemon-squeezy."_

John hit his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"Shut up, shut up," he commanded himself.

He shouldn't already be losing his mind, right? That wasn't to come until later.

_"Later."_

He forgot there was a later.

Maybe it was colder in there than he originally thought.

He realised that his fingers were almost numb.

* * *

Lestrade poured himself a cup of coffee and poured a second one as well for the intensely focused detective at the table.

"Here," he said, offering the beverage to the man. "Take a cup; you look like you need it."

There was no response from Sherlock.

"Or don't," the inspector sighed.

He set the mug down on the table and sat back down with his own, taking a long sip and watching with piqued curiosity as the younger man worked meticulously. His own face writhed in empathic frustration at the sight of the struggling detective, and he wanted to offer his services in some other form than a simple cup of coffee.

"What if I take a look?" he proposed.

He was, unsurprisingly, ignored.

"I want to help," he explained. "I mean, I've been sitting here for a good twenty-five minutes watching you tear yourself apart over this thing and feeling pretty bloody useless. I mean, I don't have your brain, but it might help to have a..." he sighed, "...simpler mind take a look. You might be overthinking-"

"'KILLED' is in quotation marks," Sherlock observed, a slight tremor in his voice. "John isn't dead."

Lestrade paused.

"I... yeah. I mean, that's great, but... hasn't that been the case so far with the other victims?"

"I'm simply 'counting my blessings', Lestrade, as you so often enjoy saying," Sherlock said abrasively.

Lestrade licked his lips and drank some more coffee.

"Anything else?"

"I have a few theories," Sherlock said, handing the sheet of paper with the riddle to Lestrade.

The inspector took a moment to read it.

"What in the hell?" he questioned, holding the sheet away from him, seemingly in the hopes of making what was on it less confusing.

"Precisely," Sherlock muttered. "A museum was my first thought," Sherlock said, "But the idea is quite nonsensical."

"The zoo, maybe?" Lestrade said with a shrug.

Sherlock gave the man a withering look.

"Never mind. What else?" Lestrade said.

"Library," Sherlock said, "A university or secondary school, a cafeteria..." he scratched his head. "Again, theories. I do find many of them ridiculous, but not exactly improbable."

"A good place to start."

"But I'm working far to slowly; practically at a snail's pace."

"Sherlock..."

"'Woolly mammoth'; why that of all creatures?" Sherlock bit his lip. "Why their meat? What is the significance?" He rubbed his chin. "Ferrier? Butcher?"

Lestrade noticed that the detective's foot was rapidly tapping the floor.

"Settle down, Sherlock," he said.

"I'm settled."

"No, you're not; you're a panicked mess. Just sit down for a second and take a deep breath."

Sherlock was emphatic.

"No time, Lestrade, no time." He narrowed his eyes. "Museum of Natural History? That isn't right. Why does it feel correct?"

Lestrade took another look at the riddle.

"Maybe you're onto something," he said. "Maybe not a museum necessarily, but something like that?"

"Pertaining to history?" Sherlock shook his head. "As I said before, libraries and universities, but this man has already struck both areas; he wouldn't strike the same place twice; that would be poor showmanship." He stopped. "Unless..." He brought his hands together.

"Unless what?" Lestrade pressed.

"Unless that "something" pertaining to history is history itself!"

"I... what?"

"Not the venue, Lestrade; don't be absurd. A clue leading to the identification of the venue." Sherlock thought for a minute. "Woolly mammoths; pleistocene," he murmured. "The Pleistocene Epoch, Lestrade, what was its most notable attribute?" Sherlock questioned, looking excited.

The inspector looked completely lost.

"I don't know," he sighed. "Why don't you explain?"

"The Glacial Age, Lestrade; The Ice Age," Sherlock answered for him.

The detective's eyes lit up.

"Ice! Meat!" he exclaimed.

"Are you having a stroke?"

"Meat is stored away in a freezer, Lestrade! A meat locker! That must be where John is located!"

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You got all of that given "woolly mammoth" and "meat"?"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes!"

Lestrade grunted and stood up, having completely forgotten about his coffee at this point.

"Great," he said. "So we know where John is. Sort of. But we don't know exactly where."

Sherlock pushed past him into the sitting room to grab his coat from the coatrack.

"I say we start with the butcher shops," the detective said, shrugging on his Belstaff. "Obviously only those ones closed on Fridays."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, there are other possibilities..."

"This is the one possibility I feel remotely confident in," Sherlock knotted his scarf. "Closed butcher shops, Lestrade; research. Now."

Lestrade scratched the stubble on his chin.

"Hold on," he said. "I think I know one butcher shop that's closed today."

"Then tell me," Sherlock begged him. "What is it?"

"'Exoticuts', I pretty sure," Lestrade told him. "It's a small shop; no one's really heard of it except my wife, I guess. She used to go there all the time."

"I don't care!" Sherlock called behind him, already halfway down the stairs. "Drive me there! John hasn't much time!"

Lestrade was quick on his feet, bounding down the stairs at least two at a time in order to catch up with the detective.

Time was of the essence.

* * *

_"Cold, cold, cold."_

That had become John's mantra. It probably wasn't the best one for him to use, but at this point he was unable to come up with anything clever.

_"Cold, snow, ice, angels."_

Where was his mind going?

How long had it been now?

How cold was it in here?

He vaguely remembered asking those questions before, but they still bothered him.

Toes. Toes! Where were his toes? He couldn't feel his toes!

_"Shoes..."_

If he took off his shoes, he might be able to see where his toes had gone.

_"In my socks."_

Of course his toes were still there. They were only numb from cold.

He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, either, but it gave him some comfort to see them there in front of him, though they were clouded by his breath every time he exhaled.

_"Finger tips and typing... blog...? Sherlock!"_

Sherlock still hadn't come. Maybe Sherlock was in danger?

_"Dead, dead, dead... like the bodies in the cemetery."_

A stupid thought. Sherlock wasn't dead. Then why wasn't he here yet?

_"Doesn't care."_

No, he does. He does! John had to shake such thoughts from his head.

His confused, spinning, throbbing head.

He felt sick to his stomach.

_"Sick... flu?"_

No; hypothermia.

He was cracking up, made insane by the freezing cold temperature.

Cold? There was cold, wasn't there?

_"Cold, cold, cold."_

But no shivering, John realised.

He wasn't shivering anymore.

* * *

"Forty-five minutes to get to a butcher shop?!" Sherlock shouted in the car. "Was your wife's car a freezer?"

"I said that she _used_ to go there," Lestrade told him. "We didn't always live where we do now."

"Are there any other routes you might take that would make the rips any shorter?"

"This is the only one I know of that's particularly quick," the inspector admitted.

"Turn on the sirens."

"Sherlock-"

"Turn them on."

"...they are on."

Sherlock looked confused.

"Oh."

"Sherlock, we have a bit before we get there. Get some rest."

"But-"

"I'm just as worried about John as you are, but it does us no good to panic to the point that we lack any and all situational awareness."

Sherlock tightened his lips and stared out of the passenger-side window, leaving both him and Lestrade in an almost palpable silence.

* * *

John's eyelids drooped.

_"Sleeeeepyyyy... bedtiiiiime..."_

The floor looked really comfortable right now. And warm...

_"Feeling warm..."_

God, when did it become so hot in here?

_"S'really hot... really, reeeeeeeallyyyy hot... hot!"_

John tugged at the collar of his jumper.

_"Really warm, really hot!"_

His brow suddenly felt as if it were on fire.

_"Clothes!"_

He needed to take these damned clothes off.

Starting with the jumper, maybe? Maybe that would help?

John clumsily pulled his jumper off over his head, tossing the garment to the side.

Oh, that felt good.

_"Better."_

Only slightly better.

He was still really hot.

And really tired.

_"Nap..."_

Just a quick one? The floor still looked really nice...

John basically fell off of the box he was seated on and onto the freezing cold floor.

It only stung slightly.

It felt good.

It felt really good.

_"Sleep..."_

John let his cheek rest on the floor, and he almost instantly let himself fall unconscious.

He missed the sound of approaching footsteps outside.

* * *

Sherlock had never picked a lock so quickly in his life.

He burst through the door and into the shop, practically hurdling the counter.

"Sherlock, hold on!" Lestrade called after him, frustrated by the fact that the man had disregarded all sorts of protocol.

And Lestrade was going to be the one to get in trouble.

"Damnit," he growled, jogging after Sherlock.

The detective was frantically tugging at the handle on the freezer door, struggling to open it.

"Lestrade, I need help!" he wheezed.

The inspector took hold of the handle and pulled along with Sherlock.

"If anyone asks..." he puffed, "...this was all you..."

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped. "Just pull!"

With one final pull, the door came open, and while Lestrade pushed it out the rest of the way, Sherlock rushed into the freezer.

"He's here!" the detective shouted.

Lestrade, red from the work that had gone into opening the door, followed the man in, immediately noticing the unconscious doctor in his arms.

"Jesus Christ," the inspector muttered.

"He's still breathing," Sherlock said, having pressed his ear to the doctor's chest. "John?" he called, tapping the older man's cheek. "Don't be an idiot; wake up."

John groaned, but he still remained unconscious.

Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"Why did he take his jumper off?"

"Paradoxical undressing," Sherlock said whilst monitoring John's pulse. "And it's no surprise either." Even he shivered. "It must be at least below zero degrees centigrade in here."

Lestrade went outside to check the temperature gauge.

"Jesus! It's -20 degrees in there!" he called.

Sherlock sighed out of frustration.

"Damn." He grabbed John's arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, lifting him up into a standing position. "I'm so sorry, John," he whispered to his friend. "Lestrade! Call an ambulance!"

The inspector came back in the freezer to help Sherlock drag the unconscious man out.

"I did while we were on our way here. They should be here soon."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

"Help me bring him outside."

Together, the two men dragged the doctor out of the shop and over to the car. They set him down in the back seat, and Sherlock tore off his coat and scarf, wrapping them both around his friend. He took John's hands in his own and rubbed them furiously to generate heat. Meanwhile, Lestrade was making a few calls to straighten out the issues associated with what had essentially been a break-in.

John groaned again when the motion of Sherlock's hands had finally generated some effective level of friction.

"It's alright," Sherlock assured him. "You're okay; you're warm."

"S'too hot..." John moaned, writhing in discomfort.

"I can imagine that that must seem to be the case right now, John, but you need to keep the coat and scarf on; your body temperature is dangerously low."

"I'm surprised he's made it this long," Lestrade admitted, throwing his phone in his pocket. "Is he awake?"

"Barely," Sherlock said. "Look for the ambulance."

"One step ahead of you," the inspector said, noticing the vehicle in question in the distance. He began to wave them down.

Sherlock buttoned the coat around John's torso, noting that the man had begun to shiver again; but only slightly.

He heard John giggle weakly.

"...okay..."

"What?"

"You're okay..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Of course I'm okay."

"'Nd you came..."

"Why wouldn't I?"

John giggled again.

"Dunno... I..." he shivered violently. "...was w-waiting..."

"For quite a while; I know," Sherlock said apologetically. He began rubbing John's shoulders.

"Ow..." John moaned.

"I know," Sherlock hushed him.

Neither of them registered the fact that the ambulance had pulled up beside the car until paramedics were pushing Sherlock out of the way. Normally, Sherlock would have protested, but all that mattered was that John was receiving medical attention.

As John was aided into the back of the ambulance by EMTs, Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Want a ride to the hospital?" the inspector asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"I'll remain there while you return to the Yard."

"You sure you'll be alright?"

Again, Sherlock nodded.

"Devote your energy to finding this criminal. I'll be doing my own research as well whilst at the hospital."

"Right," Lestrade said. "Off we go, then."

And off they went, tailing the ambulance the entire way to the hospital.


	42. Alright

**So I know it's been a while; my apologies. Lots of testing, lots of work, excuses, excuses, excuses...**

**Whatever; that doesn't matter. What does matter is that I've got another chapter ready for you all to read.**

**Well, it matters to me. I'm always excited to get feedback. :)**

**Thank you ****Starcross123 for the prompt.**

* * *

John winced as he limped along the sidewalk leading up to 221B, struggling to keep up with his flatmate.

"Sherlock, would you stop storming away from me for a moment?" he called, feeling a bit indignant. "I get that you're mad, but I'm the one who has the key to the flat."

Sherlock made no visible effort to leaven his pace per the doctor's request. Instead, he quickly ascended the steps leading up to the front door.

"Hey!" John snapped his fingers. "I have the key!"

Without the slightest hesitation, the detective turned the knob on the front door and pushed it wide open, revealing it to be very unlocked, much to the unpleasant surprise of John.

"I told you to lock it!" John practically shouted, the amplification of his voice due in part to the distance between him and his flatmate as well as the pain in his leg.

Sherlock simply marched inside and shut- slammed, really- the door behind him.

With a sigh, John hobbled the rest of the way to the front door and opened it to let himself inside.

"Git," he muttered, hissing when his injured leg hit the door frame; he swore under his breath.

John turned to shut the door, and when he looked back, he groaned; he'd momentarily forgotten about the many stairs he needed to ascend.

"Damnit."

He moved his hand from where he'd unconsciously placed it on his thigh to get a good look at the damage that bastard's knife had done in the alley.

Just a flesh wound, he decided. The bleeding did make the injury look worse than it was; all it needed was a good cleaning and a bandage.

Maybe some stitches.

But God, did it hurt; enough so that walking was a daunting task.

He cleared his throat and called up the stairs.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

There was no response.

"Sherlock, I could use a little help down here."

Still there was no response.

John tightened his lips and closed his eyes, feeling both exhausted and annoyed.

"My leg is bleeding, Sherlock, and I would really appreciate it if you would stop being pissed at me long enough to bring my med kit down here for me."

There was an audible sigh, a few footsteps and some rustling, and then the detective appeared at the landing, the kit in his hand. He stopped at the last step and pushed it out in front of him, beckoning John rather impatiently to take it from him.

"Thanks," John said, slowly grabbing it from his friend.

Before Sherlock turned around to head back upstairs in a huff, John grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

"Hey," he said.

Sherlock tensed.

"Unless your leg is in need of immediate amputation, I request that you release your hold on my arm and allow me to return to work," he said coldly.

"Are you going to be like this for the rest of the night?" John sighed.

"Like what?" Sherlock snapped.

"Pissy at me." John frowned. "Look, I get that you're mad at me for falling behind during the chase, but-"

"You cost us the potential apprehension of a dangerous man."

"Excuse me?" John tightened his grip on his partner's wrist. "I cost us the chase? Me?"

"Yes, John, you; would you like a notarised document of proof?"

John felt his jaw tighten.

"I didn't cost us shit. If I recall, he stabbed me; in the leg, mind you; and ran off. You left me behind to pursue him. If he got away, you have no one to blame but yourself."

Sherlock yanked his arm out of John's hand and turned around.

"You distracted me from the task at hand with your incessant moans of pain."

"Oh, well pardon me, then," John held up his hands in mock submission. "It was rude of me to allow myself to get stabbed-"

"Nicked."

"-_stabbed_ by a raving madman. I should have known better."

Sherlock nodded.

"I am in agreement."

"That was sarcasm, you arse," John hissed. "I can't believe..." He stopped himself. "No, you know what? I actually can believe that you're that much of an arsehole. When have you ever been anything less?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow in frustration and anger.

"If you're so averse to criticism, then perhaps it would be wise of you to stop accompanying me on these cases."

"Okay, what you call 'criticism' is blatant finger-pointing."

"My point still remains valid."

"Well to rebut your point: maybe it would be," John bit back, hardly meaning the response seriously.

"Then stop," Sherlock told him.

"Oh shut it," John scoffed. "If I didn't come with you, you'd get yourself killed."

"That suggests that I need your assistance."

John felt a sharp pain in his chest.

"What are you saying?"

"To put it quite simply: I don't need your help."

It was stated so matter-of-factly, as if he were describing the weather.

John tightened his lips and looked down at the floor, trying not to appear hurt by the words.

There was a long period of palpable silence in which both men mulled over the nasty exchange that had just taken place.

"Okay," John said quietly, his voice cracking slightly.

Sherlock's expression softened, the harshness of his words finally registering.

"John-"

The doctor set the med kit on the floor and turned on his heel, his posture straightening into a soldier's. With a deep breath, he then walked back to the front door.

And he left.

Sherlock opened his mouth to call after him, but wasn't sure what to say. He could tell when he'd stepped over the line (at least according to John) and wasn't willing to risk jeopardising their relationship any further. He decided it was best to let the dust settle on its own; John would come back later that night and make tea, and they would talk a bit, and then they would laugh. And everything would be okay.

It always seemed to work out that way, anyway.

* * *

John felt as if he were an old man without a cane, his injured leg forcing him to hobble.

He really regretted letting that arsehole flatmate of his push his buttons.

But then, he thought, that wasn't really the case, here. Some buttons certainly had been pushed, but in all the worst places.

"Fuck him," John muttered to himself, tightening his grip on his leg wound.

If Sherlock didn't need him, then the smug bastard could bloody well rot for all John cared.

John found himself limping back in the direction of the empty streets from which he and Sherlock had just returned, surprised at his own speed. How long had he been walking for, exactly? Looking over his shoulder, he judged he'd been out for at least ten or fifteen minutes; he couldn't see the flat anymore, nor could he see much in terms of people. Save the spare car that passed through the street, it was pretty serene; for lack of a better word, seeing as the alleys sent cold shivers down his spine.

At this point, the doctor really had no intent as to where in God's name he was going; just as far away from Sherlock as physically possible, he thought to himself.

He felt his phone suddenly vibrate in his pocket; someone appeared to be calling him. He hastily pulled the small cell from his trousers, resenting the fact that it was on the same side as his wound, and checked the caller ID.

'Sherlock'.

He bristled at the sight of the name and quickly pressed 'Ignore', tossing the mobile into his other pocket and proceeding down the empty sidewalk.

Again, his phone began to vibrate. With an internal growl, he once again fished out the phone and ignored the call from his flatmate, resisting the urge to turn the phone off.

It never occurred to him that Sherlock Holmes never called anybody unless out of absolute necessity.

John continued to walk, the ominous silence making his footsteps sound incredibly loud and disturbing to his own ears.

What he also found rather disturbing was the sound of other footsteps behind him.

He immediately came to a full stop, unintentionally putting weight on his bad leg. He winced and gripped the fabric of his pants over his still slightly bleeding wound.

"Feeling alright there, mate?" came the sound of a young and gruff voice.

Wendell; the man they'd been after that night.

Before John had much time to even think, Wendell had his bad arm twisted behind him and shoved him into the nearby alleyway. The younger man pinned John up against the cold brick wall with his forearm on the doctor's neck; he then pulled out a knife, the sharp blade resting on John's cheek.

"Pretty ballsy of you to come back here," Wendell hissed; his breath, John noticed, smelled of spearmint and tobacco.

John coughed and narrowed his eyes at the man.

"Well, you know me," he wheezed.

"Don't do that," Wendell sneered. "Don't play cheeky with me; I'm not in the fucking mood. You and Holmes have given me enough shit tonight; I'm not having anymore of it." He grinned almost mockingly. "Holmes'll be back to save his girl, though, yeah? Blonde hair, blue eyes... you're a regular damsel, aren't you?"

"Oh, piss off," John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock isn't even-" He stopped himself, regretting having gotten too defensive.

Wendell quirked an eyebrow bemusedly.

"What?" He leaned in closer, the spearmint and tobacco becoming more oppressive to John's senses. "Is your boyfriend out at the moment?" He chuckled. "You two on a break or something? What is it, then? Trouble in bed? Some infidelity or something like that?" He pressed the blade of the knife into John's cheek, drawing some blood. "Have you been a naughty boy, Watson; running around with some other pansies like yourself?"

John's nostrils flared.

"Or is Holmes the slut?" Wendell laughed.

The young man was unpleasantly surprised by a swift and hard knock in the skull by John's forehead, and he released his hold on the doctor in favour of grabbing his head and swearing out loud.

"Bastard!" he shouted.

"Look who's talking," John rasped, rubbing his throat to massage out the trauma that had been done unto it.

"Alright, old man; you want to fight?" Wendell wiped his chin, as he'd started drooling. "I'll fucking fight you."

John knitted his brow.

"I'm in my forties."

The man suddenly lunged at John with the knife, aiming for anything he could sink the blade into. John, adrenaline pumping, was swift on the counter attack, stopping Wendell's right hand that held the knife by grabbing the wrist; he only barely kept the blade from plunging into the side of his stomach; and grabbing his left forearm. The two men wrestled like that for a moment, John having long forgotten about the pain in his leg and the earlier conflict with his friend, before the ex-army doctor finally overpowered the younger man and rammed him into the opposite wall, his own body colliding with Wendell's rather ungracefully.

"You know something, Wendell?" John grunted as he kicked the man in the groin, sending him over with a howl of pain. "I have not had the best night."

Wendell hopelessly sprawled on the ground, clutching his crotch.

"And the last thing I needed was a homophobic," John kicked him in the side, "nicotine-dependent," another kick, "womanising," kick, "unnecessarily vulgar," kick, "murdering dickhead taunting me because of his own insecurities stemming from a creepy and pathetic sense of maternal abandonment!" Once more, John kicked him, this time with full force in the ribs. "Usually I'm more tolerant of criminals' bullshit, but, to quote you,"

John stooped over Wendell and leaned close to the man's face:

"I'm not in the fucking mood."

Wendell spluttered and coughed as he gasped for air, and John, satisfied with the job he'd done, grabbed his own phone from his pocket. His fingers trembling from the surge of adrenaline, John typed out a quick text message to Lestrade, informing him of his location and sending a quick bulletin:

'Wendell needs an ambulance.'

John smirked at his own impudence, his smile suddenly fading when he felt a dull ache in his side; an ache that quickly turned into agonising pain with every movement.

He looked down, and noticed the hilt of Wendell's knife sticking out of his stomach.

"You've got to be kidding me," he groaned, barely able to support himself with the wall before falling to his knees.

He laid himself onto his back and weakly began applying pressure around the knife, knowing that an ambulance was already on the way; maybe. He hoped Lestrade had actually taken his text seriously. If not, he at least knew help of some kind was on the way.

He was aware of another vibration in his pocket. With his unoccupied hand, he fumbled around until he grabbed hold of the cell and took a look at the screen.

'Sherlock'.

And this time, he answered.

If worst came to worst, he at least owed Sherlock a farewell; even if the detective didn't really care.

* * *

Sherlock felt uneasy.

John had been out a good fifteen minutes, and without any obvious intention of coming back.

What if he was gone for good?

"He would have taken his things, you dullard," Sherlock chided his irrational thinking.

John would be back, whether it was to make tea or collect his belongings; either way, Sherlock had a shot at redemption.

And then there was the matter of John's leg. The fact dawned on him quite abruptly; John needed to clean out the wound, or he would risk infection and, as Sherlock had cynically joked earlier, potential amputation.

"Melodramatic," he told himself. "Stop overreacting."

Things would be alright. They would practically resolve themselves in the end.

Unless they wouldn't.

Sherlock made up his mind; he grabbed his coat and scarf and tugged them on; then he made his way back downstairs and headed out the door, shutting it behind him.

"John?" he called down the sidewalk, ignoring the judgmental glare from a woman across the street.

He proceeded back in the direction of the side streets he and John had earlier been weaving their way through, deciding that that's where John would have headed without a clear head.

Sherlock grabbed his phone out of his pocket. One quick text message wouldn't hurt; just in case John wasn't going to return of his own volition and needed some extra conviction.

Or a phone call; John liked those. Sherlock despised them, but perhaps the effort would make John understand that he hadn't really meant what he said.

Sherlock dialled his partner's number, discouraged after the call was quickly disconnected; a clear sign he'd been ignored. Determined, Sherlock dialled again, again disappointed when he received the same response (or lack thereof).

His long, frantic strides took him quickly into the rougher, quieter side of London; well, one of them, at least.

"John?" he called into the empty street, hoping to get a response. But why would John feel obligated to respond at all? Even as a self-proclaimed sociopath, Sherlock still understood the concept of anger and could see it when John had left. And whenever John was angry, John seethed quietly; silently; by himself. Perhaps it wasn't wise to go looking for him after all?

"John!"

A deep-throated groan erupted from one of the alleys, a homeless man having been awoken from a fitful sleep.

"Sod off, will ya?" he snapped at Sherlock, and immediately started hacking.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in the man's general direction and kept walking.

He'd been wandering for at least ten minutes before he heard shouts coming from down the sidewalk a ways. Some pointless scrap between homeless folk, he assumed; he heard various kicks and grunts echoing throughout the vacant alley, followed by what sounded like hissed expletives; despite what John had once labelled as his superhuman hearing, Sherlock couldn't make them out. But there was something familiar about that voice; it had a certain authority and register that was reminiscent of...

"John."

It made sense; why Sherlock hadn't come to the conclusion was beyond even his own masterful reasoning.

Sherlock dialled John's phone again, and this time his call was accepted.

"Is that you I hear down the street?" Sherlock asked, making no effort to hide his panic.

John breathed heavily into the phone.

_"Did... did you follow me?"_ He sounded taxed, as though it pained him to speak.

"Never mind that; are you alright? Who attacked you?"

_"Bloody genius..." _John chuckled, seemingly more to himself than his flatmate.

"It doesn't take a genius to recognise a scrap when he hears one. Now answer my question."

John coughed and groaned.

_"Right... s-so... you know Wendell?"_

Sherlock's stomach turned, and he broke into a run.

"What did he do?" Sherlock barked. "What did he do, John?"

The detective skidded to a stop when he spotted two writhing heaps on the ground of one alley, and he darted over to them. He slid onto his knees beside the body that he recognised to be his friend.

John looked up at him, his phone still by his ear.

"Guess I forgot he still had the knife."

Sherlock's eyes fixed upon the knife in John's side, and a knot appeared in his throat that made it hard for him to swallow.

"John..."

John pressed 'End Call' on his cell and coughed.

"So..." he rasped.

"Shut up." Sherlock ripped off his scarf. "Shut up shut up shut up."

He pressed the garment around the hilt of the knife, knuckles white; though he couldn't really tell in the dark.

"Sherl..." John groaned.

"Just shut up. Please." Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and looked over at Wendell. "You've caught him."

John smirked tiredly.

"Called... called Lestrade... too." He panted as he spoke, trying to control the tears of pain that burned hot in his eyes.

"Good man; very good," Sherlock praised him. "You did well, John; very, very well. Perfectly."

"'Kay, s'enough," John waved his hand to cease the detective's rambling. He lazily looked down at Sherlock's trembling hands; the only thing really keeping the blood from slipping too far past the knife. "Doing good."

Sherlock swallowed hard.

"What else can I do?"

"M'leg hurts," John frowned.

"Your leg ought to be the least of your concerns." It thought occurred to him, then. "Did you call an ambulance?"

John began to drift, and Sherlock forcefully shook him.

"Stop that. Did you call an ambulance?"

John looked at him blearily and shrugged.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and pulled out his own phone. He sent off a quick text to Lestrade, instructing him to phone an ambulance for John.

"There. It's taken care of."

John smiled and nodded.

"Good... good... g'job..."

And he passed out, leaving Sherlock feeling angry, helpless, and alone with his dying friend and an unconscious criminal.

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep, nor did he wish to. It was as if some part of him were under the impression that losing consciousness would surely mean the monitor beside John would suddenly cease its beeping.

To his relief, John only took a few hours to regain consciousness, though it was clear that the process was laborious.

"Hey," John whispered when he saw the detective sitting vigilant by his bedside, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Sherlock, despite his elation, didn't budge, the only indication of his joy in his small smile.

John lifted up his blanket, sucking in a breath when he felt the pain from his wound intensify. Sherlock reached out to restrain him, but retreated when John waved him off. The doctor peered down the sheet at his leg and nodded, satisfied by what he saw.

"So they took care of the leg," he remarked.

Sherlock didn't say a word.

"Right." John slowly laid back down on his pillow, letting out a sigh when the tension in his abdomen faded. "So..." He cleared his throat. "Hey. Again."

Sherlock gave him a stern look.

"I didn't mean it."

John cocked his head.

"What?"

"What I said last night."

John frowned a little.

"Okay."

"John, I regret having ever lashed out at you. It led me to make a false claim, and caused you to run off and get yourself hurt."

"Are you saying you were wrong?"

Sherlock nodded emphatically.

"Yes, John; I was wrong. I was an idiot for allowing my frustration to impede my ability to rationalise." Sherlock looked sincerely at his friend. "I do need your help, John; I need you. And despite whatever I may say in the future contradicting such a profession ought to be ignored; know that what I say now is the truth. And... I'm sorry. Truly I am."

John smiled, looking relieved.

"It's good to hear you say that. You seemed so serious last night, I wasn't sure if..." He shook his head. "Forget it. A lot of shit was said last night; things that neither of us really meant. We were both tired and at the end of our tethers. So I... I accept your apology. And while we're at it, I'm sorry too; for running off."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"You should be; you nearly got yourself killed."

John chuckled softly.

"Sorry to have frightened you."

"Well, it wasn't exactly in vain, I suppose," Sherlock admitted. "You certainly did considerable damage to Wendell."

John turned red.

"Yeah, well; he was being an arse hole. Not unlike you, you know," he warned.

"Your meaning has been thoroughly understood, John, and I have taken it to heart." The detective winked cheekily.

The conversation settled, and Sherlock twiddled his thumbs awkwardly while John shifted in bed.

"Well..." Sherlock sniffed. "Lestrade instructed me to tell you that he hopes you, erm... get better. And that... oh, something else about apologies, I believe."

"That's nice," John nodded. "Tell him thanks."

"Must I?"

John pouted.

"I'm so tired and sore; I don't have the energy to."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I'm no fool; you're attempting to earn my sympathy by exploiting your own injury."

"Is it working?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Both men looked at each other and smiled.

Things were going to be alright.


	43. Buried Deep

***whips off false glasses dramatically***

**Oh, you thought I was gone for good?**

***wipes off penciled-on moustache***

**Foolish plebeians.**

***floofs hair***

**I'm back, my sweeties.**

***straightens jacket***

**The game is on.**

* * *

"Help!" John screamed at the top of his lungs.

He knew it was useless, his shouting; all it was doing was wasting oxygen.

"Help!"

He wanted to shut the hell up; *needed* to. He needed to shut his mouth and calm himself down; stop his arms and legs from frantically banging and kicking the walls of the suffocating and claustrophobic prison he had only moments ago woken up inside.

But the threat of death and his quickly depleting supply of oxygen was impeding his ability to not only think but to act rationally.

"Somebody, help! Please!"

His desperate cries were merely swallowed by the walls of his confinement and the earth pressing down upon its roof, force-feeding his ears with the distant hopes his screams might have carried with them.

If only, _if only_ he wasn't six feet underground.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

_Twelve hours earlier..._

* * *

Ah, heroin. He had never tried it himself (being particularly fond of cocaine), but he had heard fantastic stories of euphoria and relief from the characters he once used to meet at the drug dens.

Sherlock held the used syringe between the forefinger and thumb of his gloved hand, closely examining the bit of liquid still remaining in the barrel. There were at least 150 milligrams still left of what had clearly been a prepared dose of 400 milligrams.

"Hey," John knocked on the door frame, shopping bag in hand. "I've got more tea." The doctor then noticed the needle in his friend's hand, his eyes widening and palms beginning to sweat. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

The detective kept his eyes fixed on the syringe. "If the evident concern in your voice has anything to do with the fact that I'm holding a half cubic centimetre syringe containing a significant amount of heroin, which it obviously does, I must assert that this study is for a case."

John narrowed his eyes.

"A case? You mean with that poor bloke in Hackney who OD'd on heroin? I didn't know Scotland Yard was suddenly so keen on investigating this sort of thing."

"This man was a known customer of an elusive drug kingpin whose ring has only recently begun expanding into the wealthier parts of London. A growing web means growing criminal status for this lord, and a growing criminal status means a growing interest among the chief officers of Scotland Yard."

While listening to Sherlock relay the details to him, John had moved into the kitchen to unload the few groceries he'd picked up at the Tesco.

"They've got a name, have they?"

Sherlock scoffed at the mere notion.

"Of course they haven't. That's why they've called upon me." He set down the needle on the coffee table and stood up from the couch to stretch his legs. "And also, of lesser importance, in part due to the death of young Josiah Lowery. Apparently-"

"Of _lesser_ importance?" John poked his head out of the kitchen to glare at Sherlock. "Do you even listen to yourself when you talk?"

"_Apparently_ he was a friend of some sort of one of the officers at The Yard." Sherlock placed his hands on his hips and thought out loud for a moment. "A half cubic centimetre syringe originally containing what likely seemed a perfectly adequate dose of 400 milligrams of heroin to Lowery. He was likely informed, as a relatively new addict, that what he was sold was of a lower purity. I imagine that this is what initiated an overdose; not irresponsible intravenous administration on his part; he was a former nurse, so any carelessness in the injection process is highly unlikely to have occurred. Whoever sold him the heroin was either lying or simply an unwitting component in a murder."

John interjected.

"Or it was an accident."

"This man died after injecting a mere 250 milligrams of the heroin he purchased. I doubt even the purest heroin could be so lethal after such a small dose; and this selection is extremely pure. Something was clearly added to the drugs Josiah was sold, fentanyl being the likely culprit."

"So Josiah was _purposely_ given a deadly mixture of heroin _and_ fentanyl?"

"Precisely."

John bit the inside of his cheek.

"Shite." He scratched the back of his neck. "So what are you doing now?"

"Waiting until eight thirty."

"Why?"

"Because that is precisely the time at which I plan to meet a few drug dealers at their preferred dive bar. A member of my network, Pilar, gave me the tip; she so happens to be a former customer." Sherlock got an excited look on his face. "I'll be doing a bit of undercover research."

John felt his hands tighten into fists.

"No. Absolutely not."

Sherlock took off his glove.

"Hm?"

"You are _not_ going to a bloody dive bar to share drinks with some junkies."

"I'll be in disguise."

"No!" John asserted. "You won't be. I will not have you go risking everything you've worked so hard for."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh please," John rolled his eyes. "You think I don't know about your checkered past? I'm not that stupid."

Sherlock looked down at the floor.

"Mycroft told you."

"So? I deserved to know. And you weren't going to tell me."

"What is your point, exactly?"

"My point, Sherlock, is that you are extremely prone to engaging in self-destructive behaviour, as is made evident by your past experience with drugs, so spending an evening with guys who *sell drugs* is just tempting fate."

"Fate is a fictional concept that is only valued today by the feeble-minded and frightened who wish to find meaning in their pathetic lives."

"Not relevant," John shook his head, a bit thrown off by this abrupt interjection. "Look, it's just... you've come so far from that dark period of your life; done so much to make things better for yourself. I just don't want you to throw it all away if you let yourself get pulled back in. You understand where I'm coming from?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I suppose. But I don't agree with your objection." He crossed his arms. "I haven't made use of recreational drugs in quite some time now. And I can promise you that I won't have the slightest urge to change that fact."

John sighed.

"And how do I know that you will be able to hold yourself to that?"

"Because I don't need drugs anymore," Sherlock said, letting a soft, almost sentimental look linger on his face as he stared at John.

John recognised the meaning behind the words and found himself lost for any sort of response other than:

"Oh."

"Yes," Sherlock cleared his throat, returning to his original train of thought. "Well, I was prepared to ask you if you might wish to accompany me, but you are clearly in no mood to-"

"Yes," John said. "I'll go."

"Are you quite sure?"

"I'll feel better if I can keep an eye on you."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I don't need supervised."

"Sherlock Holmes, getting drunk alone with a group of drug-addicted thugs. What could go wrong?" the doctor said.

"Not all drug cartel members are thugs, John," Sherlock told his flat mate. "You must be careful not to generalise."

"Coming from the person who calls everyone an idiot."

"Everyone _is_ an idiot."

John picked up the box of tea on the counter and went over to the kitchen cupboard to put it away.

"If that were true, I wouldn't be living here, would I?" He turned around and smirked at the detective.

"Fine," Sherlock conceded. "Everyone, with the exception of a few choice individuals, is an idiot."

John rolled his eyes and shook his head with a chuckle.

"Good enough."

* * *

One could certainly tell that this place was a dive bar by simply taking a sniff at the air leaking through the cracks of the entrance. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne was enough to make John's eyes water. Opening the door only worsened the sensation.

"Jesus," John coughed; they were practically walking into a cloud of smoke.

The music playing in the bar was of a grungier genre; an unsurprising choice for a low-brow place such as this. Men and women were seated at and standing around tables covered in peanut shells; flirting, fighting, talking, kissing. It was as if John and Sherlock had stepped onto the set of a movie, the place was so typical.

"Well you blend in nicely," John told Sherlock as he looked around at the attire most people were sporting; it seemed to be an even blend of leather and shaggy hoodies. Sherlock himself had put on a pair of worn-out and slightly torn jeans, along with a leather jacket and casual t-shirt; he wore black combat boots as well. "But I seriously can't tell if you were going for biker or junkie."

Sherlock scratched at the fake stubble on his face.

"What I was "going for", John, was-"

"Jackass?"

The detective glared at him.

"Nondescript."

"Yeah," John snorted. "You really look nondescript."

"And you don't appear at all to be the type of customer they wish to see here."

"What do you mean?" John suddenly found himself getting defensive. "I don't look tough enough?'

"You're polished in appearance." Sherlock sniffed and straightened his jacket a bit. "Many people are offended by it."

"Look at you picking up on signals," John said. "But I ruffled my hair and wore my tattered jacket. I look pretty haggard."

"Polished."

John frowned at his companion before the two of them approached the bar.

"Oi mate: two pints over here, alright?" Sherlock called to the bartender in an accent that John was disturbed to hear him speaking in.

"Ace," the barkeeper smiled.

John had to admit: the man looked like someone who could beat the hell out of any poor bugger who dared to cross him, his many tattoos and rather large muscles being extremely intimidating. Yet he seemed so... kind. And Lord, if he wasn't the chattiest sod the doctor had ever met.

"There you go," the bartender said as he set the two drinks down in front of John and Sherlock.

"Ta," Sherlock nodded approvingly. God, that accent was making John more and more uncomfortable.

"Name's Leonard," the barman continued. "Feel free to call me Leo, yeah? Or Lenny. Really, I'm pretty flexible."

Again: chatty.

John took a sip of his beer and glanced sideways at his flat mate who clearly wasn't interested in striking up a conversation with Leo; he was busy nonchalantly scanning the bar. So, John took the reigns.

"Pleasure to meet you, Leo." He reached out to shake the man's hand. "I'm John."

Sherlock made a disapproving sound in his throat. Undercover meant no actual first names, John knew. But this guy seemed friendly enough, and it wasn't as if John was giving away his surname and date of birth.

"You know, you're the first guy who's done that tonight," Leonard laughed (and boy, was it a gruff laugh). "Not many blokes like a chummy bastard."

"I could do with chummy," John smiled.

Christ, it was so loud in there he was shouting.

"Listen, Leo," John said, "My mate and I are looking for a group of guys. We were set up to meet 'em here."

"I see lots of groups of guys come in here," Lenny chuckled. "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific."

Sherlock shot John a disapproving look.

"You know what? S'alright," John shrugged, reconsidering everything he'd just let slip. "We'll find 'em on our own. Thanks though." He sipped at his beer again.

"Shout if ya need anything else, yeah? I won't be moving for a while," Leo told him with a wink as he tended to some leering men at the other end of the bar.

John felt the daggers from Sherlock's stare boring into him, and he couldn't resist the nervous urge to squirm.

"What?" he finally asked the detective.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You really aren't a natural at this, are you?"

John blushed.

"Shut up."

Sherlock held up a hand to shut him up and narrowed his eyes at a group of three who had just walked into the bar.

"They're late," he said.

"For what?"

"Me." Sherlock stood up from his stool. "Come along, John."

As they walked over to the three dealers, Sherlock whispered to the doctor:

"Leonard is a customer of theirs."

"What?" John asked in alarm.

"Cocaine."

"But how-"

"His philtrum indicated long-term use. It would explain the territorial claim this particular unit of drug dealers seems to have made on this bar."

John came to the realisation:

"You think Leo's their bitch because he can't pay for the drugs? He's putting off payment?"

Sherlock stopped and pondered his friend's odd choice of words.

"...yes. Precisely." He then ruffled his hair and proceeded to confront the junkies. "Lovely day for it, then? he said in a gravelly tone of voice. "Care much if we join you for a few pints?"

There were two men and one woman, all of whom looked extremely unamused and quite dangerous. But then again, they were selling drugs under the authority of an even more dangerous and extremely influential boss.

"Private party," one of the men, one with a lazy eye, sneered.

Sherlock laughed.

"Relax. I'm a friend, alright?" He leaned forward. "I know about your... business."

The other man, of at least six and a half feet in height, narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"I want to work for it; do what you do."

The three dealers looked sceptically at one another.

"Yeah?" the other man asked. "Do you now?"

Sherlock looked both ways and lowered his voice.

"Pilar told me I could meet you here."

Now the group seemed interested.

"She did?" the woman asked. "Pilar?"

"Yeah," Sherlock nodded adamantly, clearly losing patience with these people. "Pilar."

"Right," lazy-eye nodded. "Okay. Have a seat, then."

The giant looked to John and frowned.

"And who's this?"

"My mule," Sherlock said without a second thought.

John stiffened at being called such a thing. He'd show the bastard who was a bloody mule.

"Right," Lazy-Eye nodded in understanding. "No guarantees for him though, if we do let you in with the boss."

"Gotcha," Sherlock said.

"I'll take care of him," the woman interjected. "We'll have a nice chat, yeah?"

John looked at Sherlock who pushed him to step away with her with his stare.

"Yes," John agreed. "Bully."

And with one last look at one another, the two flatmates were separated.

* * *

Lazy-Eye motioned to The Giant to go over to the bar.

"So," he said as the man did as he was non-verbally instructed, "Your name, then?"

Sherlock remained stone-faced and calm.

"Clifford."

"Not a name you hear a lot," Lazy-Eye raised an eyebrow.

"Mum was a fan of the unconventional," Sherlock shrugged.

"Right." Lazy-Eye looked over to The Giant who nodded at him.

"Closin' up here!" Leonard the bartender yelled after shutting off the music still blaring from the speakers. "Don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!"

Disgruntled customers quickly vacated the area, Leo staying behind to lock the door and pull down the window shades.

"Oi, Lenny," Lazy-Eye snapped at him. "Make a few pints, alright? And turn on some music; volume down. I hate silence."

Lenny quickly ran around to his side of the bar and turned the music back on at a bearable volume before getting to work preparing drinks for the menacing group.

"So," Lazy-Eye folded his hands together on the table. "Clifford."

"Five years of experience in Cardiff," Sherlock said with absolute confidence. "Quite a decorated bloke, I was."

The Giant sat beside his partner.

"Decorated?" he asked.

"Got lots of credit down there. Customers like me."

Lazy-Eye narrowed his eyes.

"I'm sure they do." He crossed his arms. "How d'ya know Pilar, then?"

Sherlock maintained his composure.

"Knew a friend of hers. She and I; we're mutuals."

Lazy-Eye nodded in understanding.

"Right. 'Course." He sniffed. "What friend?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Some things are still sacred, mate."

The Giant injected himself full-frontally into the conversation.

"So what's your deal then? You a user yourself or just a peddler?"

Sherlock tightened his hand into a fist under the table.

"Been clean for a while now."

"Is that so?" The Giant leaned in. "And what convinced you to kick drugs?"

Sherlock waited a moment before responding.

"I met someone."

"A girl?" The Giant started laughing as Lenny set their drinks on the table. "Women sure are a pain aren't they?"

"Oi! Watch it!" the woman seated with John shouted at him.

* * *

"Tosser," she muttered. "What'd you say, John?"

John smiled.

"Just that I think you could use a beer."

The woman leaned forward in her chair with a sultry smirk.

"I'm more of a scotch woman myself."

"Then scotch it is," John winked. "Leo?"

Leonard looked up from the bar.

"Scotch?" the man asked.

"Two please," John nodded at him. "On the rocks." The doctor glanced at his female companion. "Hope that's alright with you."

"Sounds like the dog's bullocks." She drummed her fingers on the table while scrutinising John for a minute. "I'm Louisa, by the way."

John smiled at her.

"Nice name."

Louisa went silent again before suddenly asking:

"You a gamblin' man, John?"

The doctor was a bit thrown off by the question.

"Gambling?" He cleared his throat. "I mean, sure; it depends, I mean."

"On?"

"The game." John licked his lips. "And the stakes."

"How about some cards? You play well?"

John chuckled.

"I don't mean to brag, but I am a bit of a master when it comes to card games."

Louisa slowly nodded.

"I'm sure, John. I'm sure." She got out a deck of cards from her pocket and began dealing them out between herself and John. "Crazy Eights okay?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Don't want to play poker?"

Louisa shrugged.

"No chips."

Leo came around with two glasses of scotch and set them on the table.

"Here you go, Ouise," he smiled nervously. "Just the way you like it."

"Good," she said. "S'what I expect." She bit her lip as she set the rest of the un-dealt deck in the centre of table. "Let's play, Johnny-boy."

Both of them took a simultaneous sip of their scotch and looked at the cards in their hands.

* * *

"Lots of interviewin' happening over there, then," The Giant scoffed, looking in the direction of Louisa and John. "She's lookin' to get a quick shag in the back room tonight."

Lazy-Eye rolled his eyes.

"It'll get done, you cock-weasel. Focus on this."

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth between the two men. All of this bickering would have made anyone think this was some sort of women's sewing circle, he thought; much like the one his own mother had decided to become a part of. 'Fitting in', she called it.

Nonsense.

"Whatever," Lazy-Eye stopped the fight from escalating. "Just whatever. What'd you say, Cliff?"

He'd graduated to nicknames now. Fantastic.

"Just was wondering 'bout your products, y'know?"

"Dunno if we trust you enough to disclose that important info."

Sherlock growled internally. These men weren't as stupid as he'd first assumed. He held up his hands innocently to drop the subject.

"Fair enough," he said. "Won't step over the line."

"Good man," Lazy-Eye grinned. "Very good." He turned to his freakishly tall friend. "I like 'im, I'll tell you that; he's got good character; a good persona about him."

Sherlock tried not to cringe at the abhorrently casual handling of the English language.

"Flattered," he smiled. "S'that a good sign?"

Lazy-Eye took a moment to look at him; he was assessing him.

"I'd say so." He held out his hand. "I'm Sam."

Sherlock shook the greasy appendage.

"Right."

"And this arse-bag next to me is Peter." He smirked. "Call 'im Petey, though; he hates that."

"'Course." Sherlock glanced at the giant man known as 'Peter'. "Petey."

Peter snarled.

"Haven't touched your beer, Cliffy."

Sherlock eyed his glass and took note of a thin powder lining the rim.

"Don't wanna be rude," he excused himself, "But I ain't much of a drinker. Never cared much for alcohol, y'know?"

Sam's smile faded.

"O'course." He looked over at Leo who was desperately trying not to look at any of the dealers, for fear of involvement. "Get this guy some chips, Lenny."

The bartender looked a bit distressed.

"But Sam-"

"Wha'? S'there a problem?"

Leonard paused for a second before he answered.

"Thing is, I'm out of 'em. And the fryer's off. Sorry."

Sam looked as if he were about to explode with rage and frustration, but he settled down.

"Sorry, Clifford," he said. "Guess Twat-face over there is too busy to do his job. Might have to handle him later."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.

* * *

"Out," John calmly said as he showed off his empty hands to Louisa. "Count your cards."

Louisa sneered.

"Dick," she snorted. "I've got twenty marks against me."

John smirked.

"What did I say before?"

"You haven't told me yet what your background is."

John licked his teeth a bit.

"You didn't ask me."

"I'm unconventional."

The doctor took a nervous few sips of his scotch and noticed the sceptical look Louisa was giving him.

"Well," he swallowed his drink. "He and I," he pointed at Sherlock, "Have been working together for about three years now. In..." Fuck, where had Sherlock said? "...Cardiff."

Louisa cracked her neck.

"Ooh," she moaned. "Sounds rough."

"Wasn't so bad," John shrugged. He wasn't doing too horribly, he thought. "We get on quite... ahhh," he suddenly yawned, "erm... nicely, was what I was going to say."

Louisa slowly nodded her head.

"Mhm. And he said you're his mule?"

"Yeah." Why had his eyelids suddenly become so heavy? "Um... I carry the drugs."

"S'what a mule does." Louisa stirred her drink with her index finger. "And what drugs do you carry, John?"

The doctor yawned again.

"Well... heroin and... and..." Why couldn't he think of that powdered stuff's name?

"Cocaine?"

"Yes," John snapped his fingers at the suggested. "S'it."

His head felt fuzzy.

"So tell me, Johnny: have you used yourself? Or is it just your friend over there who's done it? What's his name again?"

"Sher... Cliff! Clifford. Christ..." It was all a slurred mess that tumbled out of poor John's mouth.

Louisa seemed amused.

"Interesting name, that," she teased. "But that's a bit different from what I've heard."

John could barely keep his eyes open. His head fell onto the table involuntarily, and his vision started turning black.

"What I think," Louisa leaned in to him and lowered her voice, "Is that his name is Sherlock Holmes. And yours is John Watson." She chuckled. "Boy, did you two underestimate us, huh?"

"Hell," John muttered before losing consciousness.

* * *

"Don't worry about it," Sam hissed menacingly.

"John's a bit of a lightweight," Sherlock laughed.

Oh God, John; the man had been drugged. They were in trouble.

"Let's just save this interview for tomorrow, 'kay? If you'll just tell Pilar-"

"You tell her," Peter snarled, "That she's one lucky bitch."

Sherlock's heart started to beat ever-so rapidly.

"I see. I'll make sure to give her the message."

"I'm sure," Sam sniffed. "Leo?"

Sherlock felt a needle pierce the tender flesh on his neck as the voice of the bartender so sympathetically said to him:

"I'm so sorry, mate."

Peter reached across the table, took hold of the detective's raven locks, and rammed his forehead on the table.

Sherlock's ears felt suddenly as if they had muffs over them, yet he could barely make out the chaos going on around him:

"Stop!" he heard Louisa shout. "...'lone... said... to... Doc... s'go..."

Sherlock felt himself being slung over a man's shoulder, soon followed by cold air on his skin.

Car doors slammed; he could then hear the combined sounds of leather squeaking, a car's engine running, and angry voices shouting at one another.

But John? Where was he? Where was his doctor? Where...?

"J...n..."

The outside world was then lost to his senses.

Xx

John panted.

Oh God. He was going to die here. He knew it.

And in a damn coffin of all places.

Fucking ironic.

Silence surrounded him, save his panicked breaths and muttered reassurances.

No cell; and even if he had one, there was likely to be no reception.

Damnit.

God _fucking_ damnit!

Sherlock had to be looking for him.

He had to be.

He _had_ to be.

"Cock!" John banged his fist against the side of the coffin.

Why could he never leave the flat without getting into trouble?

Buried alive.

_Fuck you, Universe,_ he thought. _Just eat a massive-_

Wait.

How long had he been down here? How much oxygen had he wasted? Had he _left_?

_Stop complaining. You're in this now; now think of a way out._

There wasn't any way out; he had already checked. The coffin had been firmly sealed shut with duct tape and rope, and the druggies had stripped him of any sort of sharp object. No knife, no ring, no... _any_thing.

"Just breathe," he said out loud to himself. "Just relax."

Conserving his air supply was what mattered right now. He was sure Sherlock was looking for him at that moment.

Unless the detective had been buried too.

Jesus Christ.

* * *

Sherlock had woken up an hour ago in his flat, Pilar, the young Indian girl and member of his homeless network, hovering over him. He was informed by her that she had found him in a dumpster not too far from where she had decided to camp for the night; she hadn't been able to sleep much and, while on a walk, found him.

Now the detective paced back and forth across the sitting room, defying his young associate's request that he "take it easy".

Pilar had her grimy hands neatly folded on her lap as she sat upon a wooden kitchen chair.

"Mister Holmes-"

"Shut up."

"But-"

"Shut up."

Pilar stood up and cleared her throat.

"Excuse me, but did it occur to you that I might know where Doctor Watson is?"

Sherlock turned to her and narrowed his eyes.

"Do you?"

The girl scratched the back of her neck.

"I mean... not *exactly*..."

"Then shut up."

"But," Pilar continued, "I could find out."

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"How?"

"I am a certified member of your network," she said. "And remember; I know these people. I don't peddle for them anymore, but I did for a long time. I know what they're like."

Sherlock stopped his pacing.

"Well?"

Pilar took a deep breath.

"Based on what I've seen a lot from them in the past, anyone who they think might be following them or something; you know, like an undercover agent; they... eliminate." She shook her head. "But not, like, shoot them. They prefer to bury people like that alive, after they've checked for wires and tracking devices, you know?"

Sherlock paled.

"Bury them alive?"

Pilar looked ashamed.

"They like it because it isn't messy; blood-wise, of course."

Sherlock went silent for a moment.

"You knew this and you sent me to them."

"Mr. Holmes-"

Sherlock spun around on his heel.

"You *knew*, and John Watson is paying the price for your treason!"

"It isn't treason!" Pilar shouted back at the detective. "Why do you think I told you to tell them _I_ sent you?"

Sherlock had to admit the likelihood of the girl's loyalty.

"Mr. Holmes," Pilar calmed herself down, "I swear, I'd no idea they would know about you. You're not exactly a celebrity or anything."

"Right," Sherlock conceded. "Of course." Once again, he went silent. "You were confident they'd trust your judgment? Being an ex-drug dealer?"

Pilar swallowed a lump in her throat.

"I mean, I have a good reputation."

Sherlock slowly stepped towards her, closely examining every inch of her thin frame.

"You do," he said, "But not as a dealer yourself." He stopped only a few inches from her toes. "You led an entire subdivision of the ring."

Pilar had no response.

"And not only that," Sherlock continued, "But you've a firm relationship with upper-management." He cocked his head and stared down at her. "A friend? A family member?" The corners of his mouth twitched. "The latter, certainly. Not your father; he's dead, as made evident by the men's ring suspended by a chain round your neck. A sibling isn't possible either; you have none. Perhaps an aunt or an uncle, but more probable is-"

"My mother," Pilar finally admitted. "Yes."

Sherlock nodded as he absorbed the fact.

"I see." He found himself once more filling to the brim with rage. "And I assume you withheld this information for the purpose of protecting her?"

The girl sniffed.

"I... look. I didn't want to be the one to give her away. I thought if maybe you found her on your own without me telling you where she was, it would-"

"-lessen your burden of guilt?"

Pilar nodded again.

"I love her, Mr. Holmes. She might be in a filthy business that doesn't allow us a home, but she is still my mother." She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat.

Sherlock tightened his lips, thinking that time was running out; they needed to move past this.

"Where do you believe John might be located?"

Pilar shook her head tearfully.

"I really don't know for sure. All I do know is that these guys prefer more... I don't know what you'd call them... empty areas?"

"Rural? Isolated?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly; I sincerely believe a thesaurus might be a more suitable method of paying my debt to you, if such a debt truly exists."

The girl put her head in her hands as she thought; her entire body trembled from the tears she was holding back.

"They try to never hit a place more than twice," she said. "Not that they've really had to do this kind of thing much. So it doesn't really narrow it down."

"Well try narrowing it down."

Pilar took a deep breath.

"Leo is our best bet."

"Ours," Sherlock corrected. "You'll be coming with me."

"Me? Why?"

"A stupid question for it has a simplistic answer, Pilar. If John dies, your cohorts won't be the only ones who pay the price."

She nodded in understanding.

"Right. Okay. But they aren't my "cohorts"; I left them a while ago."

Sherlock's nostrils flared.

"It doesn't matter; I'll still hold you accountable."

The wrath of the detective could be foreseen by the young girl; and it terrified her.

* * *

_Breathe, breathe, breathe._

As long as he kept breathing, it would be okay; things would be okay.

If there was a God, John hoped the bastard would let him live.

_Please God._

He'd lived once before after whispering the prayer in Afghanistan. Was that his only freebie?

He figured if he was going to die, God had better spend his precious-arse time saving some poor child's life in a third-world country rather than on a kid too lazy to have studied for his exams.

_Please God, don't be a dick._

Imagine if the Lord (if he existed at all) had heard that. Holy shite.

The thought made John chuckle.

* * *

Pilar hesitantly stepped ahead of Sherlock into the dive bar, unpleasant memories flooding back to her in a tsunami-like wave.

Leonard looked up from the spot on the counter that he had furiously been trying to clean when he spotted the two familiar faces. His own face immediately turned a ghostly white colour. Frantically, he scrambled around the side of the counter and approached them.

"What are you two doin' here? You shouldn't be seen round me." His whispers came out harsh and fast. He acted as if the place had been bugged, despite the fact that the bar had long been closed, it being one in the morning.

"Leo, listen; John Watson was kidnapped by Sam and the group last night when they figured him out. The thing is, Watson is really important to Mister Holmes here," Pilar told him. "We really need your help, Leo; please."

Leo tightened his lips and gave the girl a sympathetic look.

"Alright, follow me."

Sherlock and Pilar trailed behind Leonard outside, waiting quite impatiently as he locked the bar door and unlocked the gate blocking off the set of stairs leading up to his flat, a flat which they soon discovered (without much surprise) was the very quintessence poverty. The floral wallpaper was torn and yellowing; a tiny, boxy, duct-taped television sat on the floor in front of a patched bean bag right beside a pitiful mini-refrigerator; a fold-out table sat sadly in the middle of the room, looking less than stable; a mattress lay in a corner with two dirty-looking sheets and a pillow to its name. The two visitors hardly wished to know what the bathroom looked like.

Leonard pulled some fold-out chairs (matching his "dining table") out from the closet by the door and set them out around the table.

"Sit," he told Pilar and Sherlock. "Please."

All three sat down and stared silently at one another for a moment before Leo felt confident enough to speak.

"Why are you here?" he sighed.

Sherlock folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.

"Pilar has already explained to you why we're here."

"So," Leo sniffed. "Mister Holmes..."

"You knew who I was the very moment I walked into your bar, didn't you?" the detective frowned.

Lenny nodded solemnly.

"Yes."

"How?" Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Were they expecting us? Myself and John?"

The bartender nodded.

"Yeah. Someone must've warned them." He closed his eyes. "I tried to help you guys out. I really did."

"Yes. And it was ineffective. Moving on." The detective propped his elbows on his knees and tented his hands beneath his chin. "I assume you have some inkling of where my companion, Doctor Watson, is located."

Leo shook his head furiously.

"I dunno much."

Sherlock's patience was about tapped out; his nose wrinkled.

"But you know *something*."

Leo looked on the verge of tears.

"Mister Holmes, they'll kill me if I say anything."

"And I will kill you if you say nothing." Sherlock shrugged. "So it seems as if you're condemned no matter what you do or do not say."

As the bartender sat in thought, Sherlock grew gradually more and more restless. Precious time was being lost, and John was (if he was truly underground) losing oxygen.

"Okay," Lenny said, much to the detective's relief. "I... I remember them talking to each other last night about a lot. Something about Hertfordshire, I think."

"We'll start there," Pilar nodded at Sherlock.

"They were only talkin' about burying the Doc, though. Louisa got freaked out about you for some reason, Mister Holmes: said that you weren't to be harmed."

Sherlock stared at him blankly as he processed the information.

"That isn't highest on my list of priorities." He hid his mouth and nose behind his fingertips. "You said Hertfordshire. I am assuming you do not know where?"

"Um..." Leo swallowed and tugged at the collar of his shirt. "I don't..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I recognise your low if nonexistent supply of cocaine is impairing cognitive function, but I haven't the patience for that; nor does John Watson have the time. What else do you know?"

Pilar jumped in.

"Leo, please; you've got to tell us what you know." She leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee. "Please."

Lenny swallowed hard.

"I-"

A sudden loud banging started on the door to the flat, accompanied by shouting.

"I know you're hidin' in there you fucking coward!"

Sherlock and Pilar whipped their heads around, more alarmed, in fact, than the man being shouted at.

"Christ," Leonard sighed. "He's early."

"That's Peter's voice, is it not?" Sherlock pointed out in a low whisper.

"He's here for the five thousand pounds," Leo frantically explained, shooing his visitors off their chairs while he folded them up.

"Open this fucking door or I'm breaking it down!" Peter shouted again.

"Leo," Pilar grabbed the bartender's arm, "What happened to the two thousand I got for you? I thought that's all you owed!"

Leo looked down at the floor and closed his eyes.

"Pilar..."

"Damnit, Leo!" the girl nearly shouted. "You only bought more?"

More fierce rapping on the door.

"Pilar, Mister Holmes; get in the closet. I'll handle this," Leo said.

Sherlock had to be forced into the closet by the door (much to his chagrin), and Pilar was shoved in after him. But right before Leo shut the door, the girl put a hand on his chest:

"Wait," she said, following it with a kiss.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. There were more important matters at hand; did these two honestly think an offensive display of affection was appropriate at this time?

Then Pilar backed up against the detective, and the two were shrouded in darkness.

Sherlock, extremely curious and high on adrenaline, attempted to peer through the slats in the closet door to catch a glimpse of the action.

So Pilar and Leo were in a relationship. Why on earth was he not surprised? A better question: how in the hell had he not picked up on that? He supposed his inexperience with the hormones of the opposite sex was to blame. And Pilar was so young...

Two thousand. How had the girl gotten her hands on two thousand pounds? She was homeless.

Oh.

Of course.

The blemishes round her lips; Sherlock had noticed them before, and the thought came to mind... only now did one puzzle piece fit another.

Why did he suddenly feel a pain in his heart; an almost sorry feeling? Why did he ever, for that matter?

"I'll get it. Just hang on, yeah?" Leo begged the livid gunman looming over him.

"We've been "hangin' on" for two months! Your time's run out."

Pilar was tempted to intervene, but Sherlock placed his hand in front of her to keep her from bursting out of the closet.

"Here," they heard Leonard say. "Here's all I have."

Peter snarled.

"Is this a joke?"

"It's all I can get you right now."

"Five-hundred pounds is all you can scrounge up after two fucking months?"

"Give me a week," Leo audibly stumbled backward over the one chair he'd left out in the room and landed on the floor. "I'm sorry; please. One week, Peter. I'll have the rest of it and more by then."

Peter cocked his gun.

"Time's run out, Lenny."

There were five shots, and then silence.

Sherlock placed both hands firmly on his female companion's shoulders, holding her in place as she silently whimpered. When the detective was sure the coast was clear, he slowly opened the closet door and let Pilar out.

Both their eyes locked onto the blood-stained corpse of the bartender.

A choked sound came from young Pilar's throat. Slowly, she stepped towards her lover and placed a hand over her mouth.

"Oh God, Leo," she sobbed.

Sherlock allowed the girl a moment to grieve; _a moment_; before hastily grabbing her arm.

"We must leave. Now. I have no doubt the police are on their way."

Pilar remained still.

"Pilar; he's dead. We need to leave _now_."

Pilar dropped to her knees.

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't leave him."

"Pilar-"

"I won't. Leave me here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh for God's sake." He sighed. "You'll be convicted if you're found here; first judgments have a tendency to be the Yard's favourite source of evidence."

Pilar simply stared at Leonard.

"Normally, I would gladly leave someone like you behind. But I need you; so either you come voluntarily or I'll take you by force."

She sat for a moment, contemplating. Then finally:

"Give me a moment. Please."

Sherlock watched as Pilar slowly stood up and walked across the room to Leo's mattress. Drawing out a pocket knife, she sliced into its side, cutting with ease through a re-stitched line of fabric. Her hands steady, she threw the knife back in her pocket and reached into the hole of the mattress, drawing out a handgun.

"I'll bet this is what he was trying to get to," she said to herself before placing it in her inside jacket pocket.

She reached back into the mattress and pulled out a rolled-up stack of paper money. After counting it out, she dryly laughed.

"He had ten thousand already. He could have had it done."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the money.

"Why wouldn't he pay off his debt?"

"Who the hell knows?" Pilar sighed. "Men are always so stubborn."

Leo's phone began to ring inside his pocket, and both Pilar and Sherlock turned their heads to it.

When it was clear that Pilar was far from comfortable fetching the mobile from her dead lover's pocket, Sherlock grabbed it himself, though irritatedly.

When he accepted the call, he barely had the time to demand the identity of the caller before a woman's voice assaulted his ear.

*_"Having fun so far, Mister Holmes?"* she said. *"He said you would be."_*

Louisa. Bloody hell.

"A man is dead, you shrew," Sherlock hissed at her.

*_"He owed us money."_*

"You only had him killed in an attempt to scare me. Peter had no intention of sparing him, had he paid the money he owed."

*_"I just want you to know what I'm capable of,"* Louisa said. *"I might not be the ringleader, but I'm certainly a principle player in it."_*

"Where's John?"

Louisa sighed.

*_"Lord, was he right about you; a hopeless dog-lover."_*

Sherlock practically growled.

"What the hell are you talking about? Who?"

*_"Who do you think?"_*

Sherlock's chest ceased motion as his breath hitched, and he suddenly felt as if he were going to lose the bile in his stomach.

*_"Whatever,"_* Louisa continued, despite the detective's silence. *_"I've waited long enough, so I'm calling the shots now. Meet me by the entrance to Ware Cemetery in Hertfordshire in forty-five minutes. If you're late, I'll make sure your pet is dead."_*

"I'll be there."

As Sherlock hung up, a small wave of relief washed over him.

John was still alive.

Or so he'd been told.

Sirens wailed outside.

"Come, Pilar," Sherlock said, dashing across the room. "Out the window; let's go."

Pilar cupped Leo's cold cheek with her hand and kissed his forehead before standing up straight and nodding.

"Where?"

Sherlock forced the window open.

"Hertfordshire."

* * *

How long had it been now?

John had asked himself that question at least a billion times ever since he'd regained consciousness; something it seemed he'd be losing quite soon. He found himself becoming quite lightheaded and nauseated, breathing to have become laborious. The smell of vomit was certainly no help either; he'd worked himself into a panic and upset his stomach. And now he was paying for it.

He hadn't the strength to try calling or someone anymore. Hell; it had been pointless from the start.

"Sherl..." he muttered.

God, he hoped that idiot wasn't in this same mess. That's all he could hope for now.

That's all he wanted to hope for.

Please God; let him be alive.

Please God...

Please...

John couldn't see his vision becoming hazy, but he could certainly feel his heart and lungs slowing down.

When one is aware of dying, it makes the experience quite terrifying. To know your body and mind are ceasing to function; to know that quite soon, you shan't know feeling anymore; to feel it all happening? That is something no human should have to experience. Confronting your own mortality in the worst way possible...

John heard muffled voices above him. Or he thought he did.

Maybe God had sent him angels?

No. No, that didn't make sense. If they were angels, why were they digging? He was sure those voices were digging; dirt crunched beneath the metal of shovels.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch...

Christ, they were close. They must have been digging for a while.

His casket's lid was abruptly ripped off, and a shower of dirt and fresh air hit him all at once, yet his brain still was in no mood to keep him conscious.

The darkened face that swam into view was foreign to him. Blonde hair and... blue eyes?

"Boss," he could barely hear the man say through the cotton balls in his ears.

"Sherlock..." John rasped without meaning to.

"Close, my dear; but no cigar," a different, lilted voice responded.

A terrifyingly familiar voice.

It made John's stomach turn.

* * *

Sherlock pulled up to the dirt road leading to the entrance of Ware Cemetery and brought the cab to a gentle stop. He and Pilar stepped out onto the road and immediately saw Louisa's shadow.

"A cab," she chuckled once the two had gotten close enough. "You hijacked a cab?"

"I don't have a car," Sherlock snapped at her. "Where's John?"

"Hang on a minute," Louisa stopped him. "You know I'm not just going to hand him over. S'not how this works."

"Alas," Sherlock groaned. "What is it you want?"

Louisa took out a small torch and shined it onto Pilar's face.

"Her," she said. "I want her."

Sherlock didn't budge; his eyes merely stole a glance at his equally stone-faced companion.

"I assume she is of monetary value?"

Louisa grinned.

"Oh, you've no idea. Her mother is ridiculously wealthy."

Sherlock scoffed at her.

"I evidently have some idea."

The peddler snapped her fingers, and out of the shadows came Sam and Peter.

"I've got some helpers with me," she said. "You know; to make sure this transaction goes through."

"Ouise, I dunno about this…" Sam warned.

"Shut it; no one asked you anything," snapped Louisa.

Sherlock saw Pilar's hand fidget; she was itching to grab the handgun inside her coat.

"You wish to trade valuables," Sherlock said, as if trying to work through some trying details. "An eye for an eye." He nodded. "A strong adoration for Hammurabi's Code, I see."

"Oh, stop stalling," Louisa rolled her eyes. "I know you want your friend back, almost as much as I want her."

"Josiah," Sherlock continued. "That was you?"

Louisa raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Technically. But I had no motive."

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Then who-"

"The girl, Mister Holmes. I want her. Now."

"To exploit her for ransom."

"Well, yes. But last I checked, she was a backstabbing little cunt, right? She got you into this mess. Not to mention, of course, the multiple diseases she might have exposed you to." She looked at Pilar. "What all have you got? Herpes? Chlamydia?"

"Leave her alone," Sherlock told Louisa.

"What I've got, I'll gladly give to you," Pilar said to her. "Full package."

Louisa nodded.

"Sassy; I like you."

Sherlock looked around.

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Don't play games with me. Either we exchange the both of them at the same time, or the trade is off."

Louisa licked her lips and closed her eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock." She raised a gun and pointed it at his head, her hand steady. "You don't really have a choice."

The detective stood his ground.

"I suppose I do in the matter of my death. I could always allow you to simply pull the trigger and be finished with this nonsense."

"Ah, but you're no good to John dead, are you? And in turn..." A smile appeared on Louisa's face. "...he's no good to you."

Sherlock glanced at Pilar; she nodded ever-so slightly.

"Very well," Sherlock looked back at his opponent. He nudged his companion forward, and Peter quickly came forward to grab her. "So I suppose your intent is to exploit Doctor Watson for ransom money from me?"

Louisa winked at him.

"Bingo."

"And how are you so sure I'll be willing to pay it?"

"Because you haven't let me pull this trigger."

Sherlock looked down at the ground.

"And I warn you, Mister Holmes; I am a vampire. I will suck, and suck, and suck until I bleed both and your little dog dr-"

A gunshot startled the both of them, and Peter howled.

"Fucking Christ!"

The handgun from the flat smoked in Pilar's hand, the barrel pointed down at the man's left foot.

Louisa stoically moved her gun to point at Pilar, and Sam did the same with his. Then abruptly, both of them went down in two sharp whizzing sounds. Pilar and Sherlock exchanged a completely nonplussed look. What the hell just happened? Peter voiced this exact expression.

"Hello, Sherlock!" a familiar voice sung.

Cue the Irishman.

"Jim," Sherlock sighed. "What a pleasure it is to see you again."

"That had better not be sarcasm," the criminal clucked his tongue, coming into view on the other side of the cemetery gate. "I just did something very nice for you."

A man grunted from the trees behind Sherlock.

"Well, Sebby did," Moriarty clarified. "Thanks, Dear!"

"What the fuck?" Peter exclaimed. "Who the hell are you?" He sounded extremely panicked for a praised stoic.

"You must be Peter," Moriarty smiled. "Louisa's told me so much about you."

The man earlier identified as 'Sebby', a blonde, muscular man, revealed himself and a Windurger, preparing to shoot Peter in the head.

"Hold on a moment," Jim stopped him. "Let's save him for a moment."

Sebby rolled his eyes.

"Should I bring him out?" he asked his boss.

Moriarty looked at the shock on Sherlock's face and shrugged.

"Sure. Why not?"

The blonde man went back into the trees and bushes he had concealed himself in and dragged out a half-conscious John Watson who was looking positively ghastly.

"John!" Sherlock reached out for his friend, and Sebby gladly tossed; yes, _tossed_; the doctor at him. The detective, without fail, caught his companion and tilted back his head, checking for any signs of lucidity; John groaned, and he considered that a blessing.

"You're simply giving him to me?" Sherlock asked.

"Can't a friend do nice things for another friend?"

Sherlock wrapped John's arm around his shoulders and lifted him onto his feet.

"I only have three veritable friends in the world, and you are certainly not one of them."

Jim frowned.

"I believe a 'thank you' is appropriate."

"Why?"

"Common decency."

"Are you letting us go?"

"I know that's what you were asking. I gave you a straight answer."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Honestly."

"Well," Moriarty sighed, "My plan was to have a bit of with you; hold your pet somewhere, drop you some clues, lead you on quite the chase." He sighed. "But I, as you know, am not fond of getting my hands dirty. Now, you were far too familiar with my ring, so I decided to utilise some members of someone else's. As it turns out, Louisa there had quite the chip on her shoulder; and that was precisely what I needed."

"So you went into business together?"

The consulting criminal nodded.

"I promised her young Pilar, and she promised me indentured servitude."

"I take it she didn't please you."

Moriarty shrugged.

"She handled Josiah's death well, I think. The murder was certainly praiseworthy." He shook his head. "But some people are under the impression that they can defect. They are quickly proven mistaken." He furrowed his brow. "For one thing, she left no extraneous source of oxygen for Johnny-boy, shortening his lifespan and the duration of the game. She left no clues pertaining to John's whereabouts; she simply told you after she got impatient. Not to mention, of course, her complete reluctance to proceed with a fair trade. And I strongly believe she went completely rogue when she aimed that gun at your pretty little head, Sherlock." He sighed. "I suppose they can't all be winners. I got lucky with Sebastian."

Sebastian, meanwhile, took out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter he kept in his back pocket.

"You're lucky you got as much as you did from me."

"Masochism is quite the aphrodisiac," Moriarty grinned. "Anyways. Where was I?"

Sherlock tightened his grip around John's waist.

"Louisa's many shortcomings."

"Right." Jim laughed. "I liked the bit when she sent Peter to collect the five thousand from Leo. Wasn't that fun?"

Peter swore.

Pilar suddenly interjected.

"Is he actually alive? Was he faking it?"

Moriarty looked at her with mock pity and frowned.

"So sorry to say that the answer is no. Sometimes timing is truly golden." He cocked his head. "And really think it through, my dear; would Peter be so alarmed as he is, had the both of them simply pulled a stunt?" He sniffed. "Well, Seb and I had better be popping off."

Sherlock still looked positively confused.

"That's all? The game didn't go your way so you just decide to call it off?"

"I'm very particular."

"Jimmy," Sebastian said, blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke. "We have a 6:20 appointment."

"Oh!" Jim said in alarm. "I almost forgot!" He pushed his way through the gate and casually stepped over Peter's squirming body. As he passed Sherlock and John, he slowed to give them both a disturbingly cordial nod before snapping his fingers at Sebastian.

"Want me to take care of the last of 'em before I text Maxwell?" the blonde man asked, throwing his cigarette onto the dirt road and snuffing it out with his combat boot.

Moriarty looked at Pilar.

"Would you like to do the honours?"

Pilar took a deep breath.

"No matter how badly I'm scorned, I will never stoop to your level."

Sebastian snorted.

"Fine." And before Peter could begin to plead, his life was snuffed out as quickly as the cigarette by Sebastian's silent pistol.

Neither Pilar nor Sherlock seemed remotely affected by it; they simply closed their eyes to avoid direct eye contact.

"Heartless, you two are," Moriarty chuckled. "I love it."

A car drove up to the dirt path and honked its horn.

"Shut the fuck up, Max," Sebastian hissed at the driver through the open window.

"Be nice, Seb," Jim scolded him. "A fond goodbye to you all," he waved to Sherlock and his companions. "Pilar, dear, tell your mummy Jim says hello, won't you?"

"Wait!" Sherlock stopped him. "Why did you kill Josiah?"

"Sorry, Sherly. Some secrets ought to stay secret. But feel free to tell Inspector Lestrade I was responsible. I take pride in my work." He winked. "We must part, now. But I'll be seeing you very soon."

And with that, he climbed inside the car with Sebastian and was whisked away.

Sherlock released a breath he had involuntarily been holding in, and finally he let his nerves take over.

"Pilar," he snapped at the girl, "You're uninjured, I take it?"

She was trembling, but she nodded.

"Good. Then I want you in the driver's seat. I must tend to John in the back of the car."

* * *

By the time things had settled down, it was ten in the morning. Pilar had passed out on the couch at Baker Street, and Sherlock, being a slave to his own body, napped in his chair, his tall body impossibly contorted in such a way that he would fit between the arms of the chair in a ball. What woke the detective was his ringing cell phone. In an unusually human display of muddled thinking and speech; he ungracefully tumbled out of his chair and crawled to the kitchen table, reaching up to fetch his phone that peered over the edge.

"Hmm?" he answered once he'd managed to bring it to his ear.

*_"Sherlock, Jesus Christ. Would you pick up the damn phone after less than ten attempts at calling you?"_* Lestrade roared.

"Oh." Sherlock sniffed. "I assume you're calling about, um... the bodies. Hertfordshire and the um-"

*_"Bar, Sherlock; yes. What the hell happened? Why am I all of a sudden handling four dead bodies on top of the one I already had on my hands?"_*

"Moriarty," Sherlock yawned. "And if you're wondering how I know, I ran into him early this morning. That resulted in a massacre, and-"

*_"Jesus, okay. What about this kingpin we've been looking for? Have you got any leads?"_*

Sherlock looked at Pilar on the couch and sighed.

"The only persons who had any sort of information were the ones you found this morning. They were dead before I had a chance to investigate."

*_"Damnit!"_* Lestrade shouted. *_"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"_*

"You're the Inspector, Lestrade. Think of something." Sherlock stood up. "And by the way, Josiah *was* murdered. And again, Moriarty was the one responsible."

*_"Wait what?"_* Lestrade groaned. *_"Okay. Where is he? Do you know?"_*

"I'm not his sitter, Lestrade. I'm hanging up now."

*_"Sherlock, no! Wai-"_*

Sherlock ended the call and tossed his phone back on the table. He stretched and let out a great yawn.

"Sherlock?" a hoarse voice called from the living room.

The detective smiled and stepped out to make himself visible.

"John," he said, "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

The doctor looked at the couch in confusion at Pilar, then he looked back at his flatmate.

"What the hell happened?"

Sherlock licked his lips.

"I believe that question is better left unanswered for now. Would you like some breakfast?"

John squinted his eyes at the clock on the mantel.

"It's one in the afternoon."

"Fine then. Lunch?"

John looked at Pilar again.

"Who is this?"

"An asset to my homeless network," Sherlock said. "This is Pilar."

The girl turned in her sleep.

"I was in a coffin," John said.

Sherlock cocked his head.

"You've a very erratic pattern of thought."

"I could have sworn I saw Moriarty," John said. "That I was... _saved_ by him." He scratched his head. "God, my head hurts."

"Don't exert yourself. You've had a trying morning."

"It's all a blur."

"Perhaps that is for the best." Sherlock looked at the girl still asleep on their couch. "She'll be fine on her own. Let's go down to Speedy's."

"Sherlock, I'm still really tired," John sighed. "And I'm not really that hungry."

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the floor and shrugged it on before ruffling his hair.

"Then you can order a cup of coffee." He snapped his fingers. "If you're able to walk, follow me downstairs."

John sighed in frustration.

"Will you tell me what happened if I grab lunch with you?"

Sherlock smirked.

"There's only one way to find out."

* * *

The two returned later with food in their stomachs and quite a lot to think about, John especially.

"Moriarty saved me," he had stated for about the twelfth time.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No matter how often you say it, it still remains true."

John took a deep breath.

"Leo's dead."

"A tragedy, to be sure."

John ran a hand over his face and shook his head in disbelief.

"Right. I'm going to grab a shower."

Sherlock nodded at him.

"Good. You are looking rather haggard." Then before John went upstairs: "John?"

"Hm?"

Sherlock stared intently at him.

"I never did say so, but I'm sorry. And I'm quite relieved you're alive."

John lightly chuckled.

"Good to hear that." He smiled. "I'm .. I'm glad you're okay, too."

They stood in silence for a minute before John cleared his throat.

"So... shower."

"Yes. I'll put the kettle on."

Sherlock waved him off and stepped into the flat. He expected to speak to Pilar, but found her presence was... well, nonexistent.

"Pilar?" he called out.

His eye caught a folded up piece of paper with grease spots on it, and he swiftly grabbed it with his index finger and thumb.

'_Dear Mr. Holmes,_' it read. '_Words cannot express how truly sorry I am for the trouble I caused you. And it is because of this that - though I do so with a heavy heart - I am formally resigning from your elite network of homeless individuals. It will do you some service to know that I will on this same day work to convince my mother to uplift her business and move elsewhere. She has always dreamed of a life in Copenhagen, and I have no doubt in my mind she'll be willing to move her sales there. And in case you're wondering, I had managed to pocket the ten thousand Peter owed my mother - God rest the soul of his I will forever mourn the loss of - in favour of a life away from London. I'm hoping she'll be willing to not only migrate but to take me with her as well, as I am hoping to begin another life and to start fresh. Here's hoping that my mother still cares for me as she did when I was a young girl._

_Please, do not attempt to find us. You will only get yourself and Doctor Watson into more trouble, and I am sure you've had quite enough of both mine and my mother's antics._

_I wish both you and Doctor Watson the best health and, in turn, the longest and happiest lives._

_Thank you for everything._

_Ever-loyal to you,_

_Pilar_'

Sherlock took a second to process the note and then smirked a bit. Despite everything, he had a feeling Pilar would grow to be an extremely successful young woman whom he could be proud of; her moral compass seemed pointed in the right direction.

"I wish you the best of luck," Sherlock whispered, "Young Pilar."

And though he said nothing out loud about it, he truly did forgive her.

* * *

**So sorry for the long hiatus, everyone. Hope this return chapter was satisfying. ;)**


	44. Broken: The Sequel

**Did you miss me? *eyebrow wiggle * ****So how about that new season? ;D**

**Enough stalling. I am SO SORRY for going months without updating. Someone requested that I make a sequel to Broken (shout-out to KathyG), and I went "Hell yeah! Sure!"**

**I got a bit too ambitious.**

**BUT, while I was thinking about what on earth to do for a sequel, I went to Europe for the first time. So for all of my European friends out there (especially for those in Exeter, London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and Krems), I loved it!**

**After getting back, I had a lot of schoolwork to catch up on. And of course, there were the holidays that kept me from getting much writing done. But I made time, damnit! So here I am with the sequel to Broken.**

**Have fun!**

**~rosetyler39~**

* * *

**Part One**

* * *

"Mister Holmes?"

"What?"

"Did you hear me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor standing before him and scoffed.

"Of course. What an absurd question."

"You must have a response, then."

"If my silence wasn't telling enough, then I am at a loss as to what the next step in the conversation ought to be. I'll admit, I have always been rather deficient when it comes to the act of social engagement, especially with the officious faculty members that one seems to find in every hospital on record in the United Kingdom."

"I would greatly appreciate it, Sir, if for once you wouldn't deflect my well-informed medical advice with your cynicism and misanthropy."

"We've known each other long enough at this point, Tabatha, that I insist you drop that ridiculous formality you have a habitual practice of placing before my surname."

"Very well, then." The doctor sighed. "Sherlock, it is in both John's and your best interest that I implore you: take what I said into consideration."

"No."

"A trauma therapist would be incredibly helpful, I am sure, in aiding John's mental healing process."

"He does not require the help of one."

"Sherlock..." Tabatha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Sherlock, he is struggling immensely with basic human interaction. You know that. In fact, the only person he is comfortable in the presence of is you. I fear, however, that his boundless trust in and reliance on you is causing him to become clingy, for lack of a better word. Without you, he becomes fearful, as does an infant when he loses his pacifier. You are his safety blanket, Sherlock, and if you refuse him the professional help he really needs in favour of your own, he will not let go."

"He's coming home with me."

"He needs to learn to trust other people again."

"He trusts me."

"That isn't good enough."

"It is to me."

Tabatha gritted her teeth. Talking to this man was like trying to get somewhere on a treadmill.

"I realise that it is within your right as his next of kin to make these decisions for him at a time when he cannot, but I must urge you-"

"The very last thing my friend needs is a pitying psychologist forcing him to relive his trauma for the sake of the so-called "long-term". The person I trust the most to care for him is myself and myself alone. With that said, would you kindly give to me the necessary paperwork to check him out of hospital?"

Tabatha bit her lip.

"Would it be intrusive of me, in your opinion, to suggest attending one therapeutic session with him? That would be the logical first step to take, anyway; we wouldn't simply throw him into the deep end on the first day."

Sherlock grunted.

"He wouldn't handle the meeting well."

Tabatha smiled.

"As long as you're there, I'm sure he'll be fine." She flipped through the papers on her clipboard. "One meeting," she said, dropping them back in place, "That's all I'm asking for. If you don't find it to be to your satisfaction, then you don't need to attend anymore. Just stay in touch with me, alright? I want to know what your decision ends up being in the end. Whatever it is, I'll help you." Tabatha handed him a card. "You already know my number; that's the cell of one of the best trauma psychologists I know."

Sherlock squinted at the card.

"A friend of yours?"

Tabatha winked at him.

"My sister." She put a tentative hand on the detective's shoulder, and she felt the man's body tense. "Let's go to the receptionist's desk. We'll handle the paperwork there."

* * *

Sherlock stared at the card in his hand, the phone number calling out to him as a voice of reason.

"It isn't necessary," he told himself.

That seemed to be his repeated mantra. And yet, even he wasn't entirely convinced that he was well-equipped to take care of John's fragile mind on his own.

He heard the doctor toss a little in bed, and he looked over at him; the man's face was twisted into an expression of discomfort and panic.

Another nightmare.

Quietly, the detective approached his friend's side, placed his hand gently on the man's back, and began massaging it in small, soothing circles. In a short while, John was calm again.

_It isn't necessary. I can do this. I can take care of him._

John's breath hitched in his sleep, and he whimpered ever-so softly.

"It's alright, John," Sherlock soothed. "I'm here. It's alright."

_It isn't necessary. It isn't necessary._

Damn. This mantra wasn't working.

"Sh'l..."

"I'm here, John, I'm here."

Perhaps it was necessary.

With a sigh, Sherlock gently left his friend with a small but reassuring pat on his shoulder before stepping out of the room into the kitchen; he left the door slightly ajar in case of an emergency.

He bit the inside of his cheek, scrutinizing the written phone number.

_Perhaps it could be worth a try?_

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Xx

_'Call her._

_MH'_

Xx

Sherlock frowned. Of course Mycroft knew about this.

Xx

_'It isn't necessary._

_SH'_

Xx

_'You don't believe that. Neither do I. If John had complete control of his mental faculties, he wouldn't believe that._

_MH'_

Xx

_'Piss off._

_SH'_

Xx

_'Be smart._

_MH'_

Xx

The detective practically threw his phone across the table and ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Dammit," he swore under his breath.

He quickly walked over to where his cell had landed and snatched it up into his hand. He then dialled the given number.

_*"You've reached Doctor Winifred Mills' office. Due to the fact that your number is not an authorized number in our system, we politely request that you redirect your phone call."*_

"My number has been cleared."

_*"And could I ask who referred you to Doctor Mills?"*_

"Doctor Tabatha Russell."

_*"I see."*_ The secretary cleared her throat. *_"One moment."*_

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the woman audibly set down the phone and walked away. What in the Hell was she doing?

He unpleasantly observed that the minute hand of his watch had moved its way from the six to the eight by the time he was put back on the phone with the annoying secretary.

_*"Goodbye, Sir,"*_ she curtly said.

Sherlock felt a rage boiling inside him when a different voice picked up on the other end. This voice was far more soothing and lilted.

_*"You say my sister gave you my number?"*_

"Yes. And might I ask why a trauma psychiatrist such as yourself has decided to isolate herself from potential clients?"

_*"I only take clients I find interesting."*_

"Then clearly my friend is so, considering your sister bothered putting me in contact with you."

_*"That will be for me to decide."*_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps you were expecting my call. Are you familiar with Mycroft Holmes?"

Doctor Mills went silent for a moment.

_*"You're Sherlock, then."*_

"Obviously. And my friend-"

_*"Is Doctor John Watson, yes. He was the one involved with... yes. Brilliant. Bring him in this afternoon."*_

That was unexpected.

"This... this afternoon?"

_*"Yes. 14:57, if you will. Thank you. I'll see you both then."*_

And with that, she hung up.

That had been quite the peculiar encounter, even by Sherlock's standards.

"Hm," he grunted.

He hated how Mycroft always meddled in things. Calling ahead... typical.

* * *

Mycroft forwarded Doctor Mills' office address via email, and Sherlock found it to be curiously inconspicuous as the private car his brother had sent pulled up in front of it.

"This is it?" Sherlock asked. His hand was rested upon John's own on his chest, the doctor holding tightly to his purple dress shirt.

The driver nodded his head, motioning for the detective to step out with his friend.

"I see. Very good." Sherlock gently ushered John, currently whimpering softly, out of the car and shut the door. His companion flinched. "It's alright," he reassured him. "It's fine; just a door."

The two slowly stepped inside the lower floor of the building: the walls were florally painted in white and black and the floor was made of a firm black hardwood.

A secretary nodded at the two, her tight bun moving with her head, and pressed a button on her desk phone.

"They're here," she said. She then stood up from her chair. "Follow me, please."

They were then both escorted by the young woman into the room furthest end of the lobby and were then left alone with the door shut behind them.

Sherlock felt his friend trembling.

"It's okay, John. I'm right here."

The doctor simply dug his fingernails further into the silk of the detective's shirt.

"Punctual," a woman said, drying her hands on a white hand towel as she came out of a washroom around the corner. "I like it."

John's heart rate noticeably increased, and Sherlock wrapped a comforting arm around the man's waist.

"Doctor Mills, I presume," Sherlock nodded at the psychiatrist.

"Mister Holmes," she nodded. "Would you please take a seat beside Doctor Watson?"

Winifred Mills was a tall woman, only slightly shorter than the detective. Her blonde hair was cut in such a way that it barely touched her shoulders; it was incredibly fine, but some deliberate brushing gave it reasonable volume. Her thick glasses perched on her hawk-like nose and revealed soft blue eyes that revealed a notable level of curiosity and intelligence. The corners of her maroon-painted lips were only slightly turned up in an attempt to convey some level of amicability.

"While I can appreciate careful scrutiny, Mister Holmes, I must ask that we focus on our present appointment."

"Was I staring?"

"You were." She polished her glasses with a cloth hidden in her suit pocket. "I just decided I'd let you make yourself more comfortable. I understand that you might have found this process to be a bit out of the ordinary."

Sherlock held John's hand tightly to keep the doctor from having a panic attack.

"Why so selective?"

"Because there are plenty of psychiatrists out there who are capable of handling trivial mental ailments, war-brought Post Traumatic Stress Disorder being one." She replaced her glasses. "I am one of the few who can manage a patient having undergone abnormal suffering. Doctor Watson is certainly a case worthy of my skills."

"You're quite confident in your abilities."

"As are you. Don't be hypocritical, consulting detective." She sniffed. "Are you ready to begin? Or would you prefer to deduce me for a bit longer?"

Sherlock looked at John who had practically gone catatonic, and he sighed.

"Yes. Let's start."

"Good." Doctor Mills smiled and picked up the notebook beside her. "Now that we're working together, I would prefer that you address me as 'Winifred'. Formalities are a bit absurd, yes?"

Sherlock laughed humourlessly.

"Fine. I suppose you may use my first name as well."

"And I will use Doctor Watson's. Good." She opened up the front cover of the book. "Is it only in the presence of strangers that John clings to you, or is it during all hours of consciousness?"

"The latter," Sherlock reluctantly admitted.

"He trusts you then."

"He always has."

"You're a constant in his life, then."

"Perhaps. I've never really thought about it."

Doctor Mills quickly scribbled on the blank page.

"And he returned home about two months ago, correct?"

"Yes."

"And his stay in hospital? How long did that last?"

"One month, three weeks, and four days."

"Was he bedridden the entire time?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Is this really necessary?"

Winifred peered over the rim of her spectacles.

"It is to me."

"No," the detective relented. "I took him for walks through the halls daily. I wanted him to get well, not to be forced to laze about in bed."

"There is no reason to be hostile. I wasn't criticizing you." She took some more notes. "And how has John's communication been?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Sherlock?"

"Minimal," he answered. "Almost non-existent."

"Good," the woman said, earning a glare from the detective. "That means a challenge. I like challenges."

"John isn't a 'challenge'," Sherlock spat. "He's a human being."

"And one who will be a joy to heal." Doctor Mills quirked her eyebrow. "Let's get started."

* * *

*"_Don't be so childish, Sherlock."*_

"It was as if the both of us were the subjects of an interrogation, Mycroft. It was absolutely absurd. I refuse to take John to that woman again!"

The elder brother emphasized his sigh that followed in order to make clear his exasperation.

_*"Therapy does involve interrogation, brother dear. If questions aren't asked, the patient will not be prompted to give answers."*_

"I hate her."

_*"The fact that you dislike her does not discredit her ability as a psychiatrist. As her sister told you in _hospital_, Doctor Mills is perhaps the best."*_

Sherlock fiddled with the skull on the mantel, fingers anxiously hooking themselves onto the eye sockets.

"She was asking completely irrelevant questions, hardly taking any notice of John."

_*"It wasn't as if John was mentally present himself, now, was it?"*_

Sherlock looked down at the floor, still fuming.

_*"The process will be a long and arduous one. You have to be willing to give it time."*_

The detective softened his entire demeanor, defeat and sorrow evident in both his posture and tone of voice.

"I want John to be himself again."

_*"And he will be if you remain patient. Denying him professional help will only worsen his mental state."*_

"And what experience allows you to make such a testimony?"

Mycroft yawned.

_*"Trust me. Now, I have a dinner I must attend. I sincerely wish the both of you a good evening."*_

"Ensure that desserts are kept out of your reach. Your girth is already of an unhealthy size."

Mycroft groaned in irritation.

_*"Goodnight, Sherlock."*_

He was the first to hang up, much to Sherlock's relief.

There was a soft cry from the bedroom that immediately sent Sherlock into a silent panic, and the detective rushed to his companion's side.

"John? John, it's alright. I'm here."

The doctor appeared to still be sleeping, yet fitful due to what Sherlock could only assume was a vicious nightmare.

"You're safe, John."

_Why am I always so dreadful at this?_

He petted John's hair as tenderly as he could, but his own hands trembled at the sight of his friend in obvious mental and physical anguish.

"You're safe with me, John. I promise you, you're safe at home."

John was clutching his stomach, reaching to something he felt he had ingested, and he looked as if he were going to vomit.

"No, no, no." Sherlock swore under his breath and snatched up the waste bin from the opposite corner of the room. Holding it in his left hand, he moved John into a sitting position. And it was all just in time, for not a second before Sherlock lifted the bin to John's mouth did the doctor begin violently throwing up what little Sherlock had managed to feed him that day.

It seemed like ages before John finally ceased, shivering and quietly crying. Sherlock simply set the bin down upon the floor and held John in a gentle embrace, rocking him back and forth as he did that night in the hospital.

"It's alright. It's alright."

Such meaningless words. Of course it wasn't alright; John had practically ejected the very lining of his stomach into a tiny rubbish bin. It was the furthest from alright.

Sherlock sat for nearly an hour, eventually moving John from a hug to a childlike cradle in his arms. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

He desperately needed to locate Moriarty. He felt a red-hot rage boiling within him, and the only thing that could possibly quench it would be the brutal torture and slaying of Jim Moriarty.

_He's ruined this man._

Such a good, kind, and smart man, too, who in no way deserved such torment.

Sherlock felt something trickle down his cheek as he clutched his friend closely to his chest. Wiping it away revealed it to be wet and warm.

It was something he hadn't felt the touch of in a long time.

* * *

"You look absolutely knackered, dear."

Sherlock stared into his milky brown tea with a look of pure exhaustion on his usually lively face.

"Shrewd observation, Mrs. Hudson."

The landlady listlessly stirred her own cup and sighed.

"Did the therapist help him at all?"

"Results do not appear as if by magic. The process will take time." Sherlock hated when his prick of a brother was right, but he knew better. "John will be fine."

"I saw you clearing out a rubbish bin early this morning." Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Did he have an upset stomach?"

The detective, a bit nonplussed at the landlady's unusual perceptiveness, took a moment to collect his hazy thoughts in order to form a coherent response.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Then I do hope you gave him something to settle it."

"Why would I? The last thing John needs is more medication in his system. Besides, he wasn't entirely conscious while doing it."

"I could take a look at him."

"You'd only upset him. Strangers intimidate and frighten him."

Mrs. Hudson wiped her eyes a bit as she desperately tried to conceal her sentiment.

"I just feel as if I'm sitting here doing nothing while you're tending to him night and day. You haven't gone out of the house on your own in ages, dear. I honestly think you could use a case to ease the stress."

Sherlock watched the steam from his cup fade away as the tea succumbed to room temperature.

"Here is where I belong, beside John."

"I think the both of us should try and introduce him to his friends again. Since I live here, why don't we start with me?"

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"I'll help with everything the both of you could need. And having one more person around who John trusts would be incredibly helpful for you."

The detective sat in silence for a long time, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's slow migration from the kitchen counter to chair beside him at the table. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps leaving John with her might allow him to sniff out exactly where Moriarty was hiding, as opposed to sitting around and waiting for Scotland Yard to come up with something.

_They'll never find anything._

"I ought to consult John's therapist. Perhaps she might object to it."

The landlady tutted.

"Perhaps you're trying to keep me away from John. You're protective, dear, and that's completely understandable. You and John are alike in that you have trust issues. Always have been."

"I don't have trust issues."

"Yes you do. Despite what you may think, I'm not thick-headed. I can see right through you."

Sherlock tightened his lips and fumbled with his teacup's handle, not caring that the movement spilled some of the liquid onto the checkered tablecloth.

"Very well," he said. "Perhaps we can try at some point in the future."

* * *

"He's uncommunicative," Sherlock stated. "As I have said before."

"And his response to stimuli remains unchanged, I'm sure."

"Obviously." The detective crossed his arms. "He's only vaguely aware that I am present."

Winifred took some notes.

"And you say you've tried to acclimate him to your housekeeper's company?"

"Landlady."

"Same thing." The young therapist looked up from her book. "How has that been working out for you?"

"He's gone into conniptions, as expected," Sherlock sighed. "I did tell Mrs. Hudson."

"You act as if that annoys you when realistically, you'd be happy to be unburdened."

Sherlock stiffened.

"That isn't true."

"It is true. But boredom isn't to blame. It's your sense of vengeance."

"What?"

"You aim to locate..." she chose her words carefully, "...Him so that you may exact retribution."

The detective looked at his friend still clinging onto his arm.

"Were my motives that clear?"

"They were, and you know it." Doctor Mills removed her glasses and stared intently at John.

When Sherlock angrily questioned her actions, she held up her index finger to silence him.

"John has been unable to interact with anyone other than you for almost two months now. My objective is to change that during today's session." She monotonously began to address the paralysed doctor sitting in front of her. "John, my name is Doctor Winifred Mills, in the event that you missed my name. I am a trusted acquaintance of Sherlock's and am not here to harm you in any way. Look into my eyes and see that I am telling the truth."

John's eyes darted to the therapist's gaze but quickly retreated to the upper-right corner of the room.

"My name is Winifred Mills. I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman who lives alone in a small flat with her husky, Hotchkiss, and her red beta fish, Antony. My mother died when I completed my time at university and my father currently lives in Exeter with his two cats. My only sibling is my sister, Tabatha, who has decided, much to my chagrin, to pursue a life of domesticity. I might appear cold on the surface, but I do sincerely want to help you trust people again. If I thought myself untrustworthy, I would not have told you so personal a story. Look into my eyes, John."

This time, John's eyes stayed focused on Winifred's.

"I want to help you trust people again."

Sherlock, unbeknownst to himself, hadn't taken a breath since Doctor Mills had begun speaking. He hesitated to make a sound.

"I will not hurt you. Sherlock knows that. He will tell you."

The detective took his cue.

"She only wants to help you, John. I know that you can trust her."

John looked to Sherlock. Then he looked back at Doctor Mills.

And then he nodded.

Sherlock felt his heart flutter in his chest.

"I won't ask you to speak now, John, if you aren't comfortable yet with that idea. All I ask is that you nod 'yes' or 'no' when prompted with a question. Do you understand?"

The doctor nodded.

"Are you alright with that?"

He nodded again.

"Do you want to speak?"

He shook his head.

"Can you speak?"

He hesitated a bit before slowly shaking his head. His body seemed to tremble.

"That's alright, John. I don't want to make you uncomfortable." The therapist replaced her spectacles and crossed her legs. "Do you know where you are right now?"

Yes.

"Do you know who I am?"

Yes.

"Do you feel safe with me?"

A tentative no.

"Do you feel safe with Sherlock?"

An emphatic yes.

"Do you trust Sherlock?"

Yes.

"Good." She wrote down a few more items in her notebook. "I think we're done for now."

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You've only just started!"

John winced at the exclamation, and Sherlock placed a comforting hand on the man's arm.

"And I'm nowhere near finished. But for now, we ought to take a break." Winifred closed her book and smiled at him. "Bring him by again tomorrow. Same time. We'll see if we can move on to verbal communication."

* * *

_'It sounds to me like its working well'_

_'*it's'_

Xx

_'What do you know? You work with the dead._

_SH'_

Xx

_'So do you'_

Xx

_'I don't trust that woman._

_SH'_

Xx

_'You just don't trust anyone who isn't you or John'_

Xx

_'That is entirely false. I trust Mrs. Hudson._

_SH'_

Xx

_'What _aboiut_ me?'_

_'*about'_

Xx

_'Is that relevant?_

_SH'_

Xx

_'What about Greg?'_

Xx

_'Who is Greg?_

_SH'_

Xx

_'You need to start trusting people'_

Xx

_'If I simply start trusting everyone I come into contact with, I'll endanger lives, my own included._

_SH'_

Xx

_'You didn't trust people before and John still got hurt'_

_'Your plan clearly _isn't fool_ proof'_

Xx

_'Goodbye, Molly._

_SH'_

Xx

_'Sherlock wait'_

_'Im sorry'_

_'*I'm'_

_'Sherlock'_

_'Please'_

Xx

Why did he even bother trying to talk to anyone outside of himself and John? The two of them would get along fine on their own.

Doctor Mills encouraged him to engage himself in conversation, if only slightly.

He hated when he knew he was wrong. He didn't want to be wrong. Why couldn't things just work out? Why couldn't he just have his way?

"John?" He approached the frail doctor in his chair and knelt in front of him. He looked into the man's eyes and begged him to look back at his. John obliged. "John, can you see me?"

The doctor nodded.

"Are you frightened?"

No, he wasn't, and he quickly affirmed this silent trust with a hand covering and holding tightly the detective's hand.

"Will you let me make you dinner?"

John had not touched a real dinner in ages. Sherlock had simply fed the man nutrients through a needle when he couldn't convince him to manually consume something of substance. The detective had been trying to reintroduce his friend to solid foods so as to avoid upsetting his stomach, but John rejected the gesture each time.

"John? Will you let me feed you something to make you feel better?"

The doctor shrugged indifferently.

"I will not force you to eat."

John nodded.

"But I do ask that if I'm going to feed you, you don't spit up on me. You know how much I love this shirt."

John blinked, his face blank and his eyes tired.

"Joking," the detective teased as he twitched the corners of his mouth into a small smile. "How does chicken soup sound to you? Good?"

Another nod.

"Fantastic. I'll fetch it for you."

It was a relief to have John calmly down the spoonfuls of soup presented to him. And to Sherlock's delight, he finished the bowlful without much of a hassle. This nuanced form of communication was incredibly effective.

"John?" Sherlock placed a hand on top of the doctor's, prompting immediate eye contact. "You remember Doctor Mills?"

The doctor nodded.

"Please tell me, John: how do you feel about her? Would you feel alright in a room alone with her?"

This seemed to stir a panic, as John rapidly shook his head 'no' over and over again. He wrapped his arms around his companion's chest and continued to shake his head. Sherlock felt the man's breathing quicken.

"It's alright, John. I won't leave you alone. I'll be with you whenever and wherever you need me. I will always be by your side."

John choked back a sob and buried his face in the detective's soft shirt. Sherlock hugged him back, gently stroking the area between his shoulder blades.

"I love you, John."

The declaration was involuntary. Even Sherlock wasn't quite sure if it was he who had said those words in such earnest.

I love you.

What did those words even mean? He supposed the meaning was entirely subjective, aside from the general sense that the phrase had a sentimental connotation. And upon some brief deliberation, he decided he meant those words. A part of him knew that he always had.

"I love you," he said again, this time squeezing his friend closely to his chest.

And almost too quietly for him to hear, John responded.

"Me too."

* * *

**Part Two**

* * *

"Things are going well?" Doctor Mills asked. She wrote something else down in her notebook.

"Yes," John said.

Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

"Yes, things have been marginally better."

Winifred arched her eyebrow so that it rose above the rim of her glasses.

"Marginally?" She stared at the two men. "How are the nightmares?"

"Not as violent," Sherlock attested.

Winifred cleared her throat.

"John?"

John nodded.

"They've been less bad. Sherlock's with me."

Doctor Mills wrote in her notebook.

"Trust issues are still a prevalent issue, I perceive."

John shrugged, prompting her to press the matter further.

"How are you feeling, John? About people?"

"They're people."

"If I were to place you alone in a room with a complete stranger, would you be more likely to strike up a conversation or to attempt an escape from them?"

John didn't seem to like that idea.

"I like you. I like Sherlock. I like Mrs. Hudson."

"How about Inspector Lestrade? You know him, correct?"

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Don't press the matter, Winifred."

The therapist held up a finger to shush him and maintained eye contact with John.

"John?"

"Yeah," the doctor nodded. "I know him."

"'Do you trust him?' is my question."

John shrugged.

"Dunno."

"If you were alone with him, how would you feel?"

"Scared," John admitted.

"What if Mrs. Hudson were with you?"

"Better."

"With Sherlock you'd feel most at ease, I'm assuming."

John nodded silently.

"Right." Doctor Mills' pen dashed rapidly across the pages of her notebook, and she shut it after finishing her thought. "John, you're doing considerably better. You are able to speak to and engage with others you trust, which is leagues beyond what you were capable of just last month." She sighed. "But back to the issue of trust-"

"Which is a common theme, I'm noticing," Sherlock grumbled.

"You need to expose yourself to uncomfortable- potentially frightening -situations if you are going to regain your ability to interact properly with the people around you. You must learn that not everyone is plotting against you. People aren't really all that sinister. There are only a few malicious seeds that get thrown into the garden, if you understand my meaning."

Sherlock and John merely stared at her.

"Just a friendly recommendation," Mills said. "Let's call it a day, shall we?"

* * *

"How hungry are you?"

"Not very," John said.

"Chinese? Italian?"

"I'm okay."

Sherlock placed his fingertips beneath his chin and stared at his companion with the utmost scrutiny.

"You've barely regained the weight you lost."

The doctor shrugged.

"S'okay."

"It's not," Sherlock sighed. "I would like you to eat, John. Please. For me."

John bit his cheek and stared at the floor.

"Would you eat a plate of pasta?"

John shrugged.

"At least half?"

After some thought, John nodded.

"Okay."

The detective, please with his friend's capitulation, shrugged on his coat and ruffled his hair as he readied himself for their outing.

"Come, John," he said. "I'll be beside you the way there and back. Don't fret."

John stayed seated.

"John?"

"I'll stay."

Sherlock seemed surprised by the response.

"Pardon?"

"I'll stay here. By myself." The last words were clearly forced and hurt the doctor as he said them. But it was clear he meant them. "S'okay."

"John," Sherlock placed himself in a squatting stance in front of the man and looked into his eyes, "Are you quite sure? If you don't feel safe-"

"I'll be okay," John insisted. "Just go."

Sherlock sighed and nodded.

"If that is what you wish, then so be it. But in the event that you feel frightened by my absence, take this." Sherlock dug a coat button out of his pocket; it had fallen off of his collar a few weeks before John had been kidnapped, so he'd carelessly thrown it in his pocket before he and John left for lunch.

"Do you remember this, John?" Sherlock asked him.

The doctor allowed a small smile to creep onto his face.

"Mhm."

The detective placed it gently on his open palm.

"Keep it with you. I wouldn't wish you to feel alone without me here."

John nodded.

"Thank you." He reached out and wrapped his arms around his flatmate's neck. But another burning question caused him to pull back and look worriedly at his friend. "You're coming back, right?"

Sherlock almost laughed.

"Why on earth wouldn't I?"

"Dunno," John swallowed. "Just… please come back." He squeezed the button tightly in his hand.

Sherlock planted a friendly kiss on top of John's head.

_This is what people do when they care deeply for someone, yes?_

"I promise that I will be." The detective smiled down at him. "Would you like me to send Mrs. Hudson upstairs to keep you company?"

John pondered the idea for a second and nodded.

"That would be nice."

"I'll take care to do that, then," Sherlock said. "I'll return very soon."

When Sherlock returned, all was as it should have been, and then some. John was smiling and laughing- _laughing_ -with Mrs. Hudson over a cup of tea. They were having a small conversation concerning the landlady's former cat and were acting as if nothing had ever happened to spoil John's spirit.

"I've brought dinner," Sherlock said.

John jumped a little in his chair, nearly spilling his tea.

"Oh," he sighed with relief. "Hey."

"Hello." The detective smirked. "I noticed you two were talking. So sorry to interrupt."

Mrs. Hudson was grinning so widely that Sherlock was sure her lips would split open.

"It's no trouble at all, dear." She stood up, set her now empty cup down on the end table, and brushed off her dress. "I ought to return to the kitchen, anyway. I have dishes I must wash if I want to have my breakfast on a clean plate."

Sherlock looked at the floor momentarily.

"If you would like," he stopped her in her tracks, "you may stay and eat with us."

"Oh," the landlady chuckled, "It's fine. You only brought dinner for two-"

"Three."

"Hm?"

"I brought you dinner as well. If you're interested."

John looked back at him and smiled softly.

"That's kind."

Sherlock winked at him.

"I do try."

Mrs. Hudson placed her hands on her hips and clicked her tongue.

"Well, it would be rude of me to turn down such a generous invitation. And a shame as well; this instance is rare with you, Sherlock."

The detective shrugged.

"I was feeling particularly generous this evening." Sherlock cleared the table of the (surprisingly very low amount of) glassware and began unpacking the food. "Chicken parmesan, Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady had helped John into a seat at the table and smiled.

"That sounds lovely."

"And for you, John, I brought lasa-"

There was a loud _thump _downstairs, bringing silence down upon the room like a torrent of rain.

"That would be a package, wouldn't it?" Mrs. Hudson remarked.

Sherlock turned his head sharply in the direction of the door leading to the stairs.

"Yes. But deliveries don't occur so late in the evening." He looked at John and bit his lip. "I'll return shortly."

Upon reaching the parcel lying in the foyer, the detective noticed a note neatly taped on top.

'Heard from my little tweety bird that your pet is doing well. I wanted to leave him a little present.

XOXO Jim'

Sherlock frantically jumped over the box and threw open the front door just in time to see a car turning off the street.

"Damnit!" he swore.

Why didn't he move sooner?

He ran back inside, nostrils flaring wildly, and he began tearing open the box. He dug through layers of packaging peanuts before finding what horrifying "gift" had been left to himself and John:

A hypodermic needle with a smiley-face sticker on it.

There was another note beside it.

'"My name is Mr. Pointy! Johnny and I got to know each other really well. Hopefully, you and I can too!"

P.S.: You boys be careful when sharing needles. ;)'

Sherlock threw the needle and the note back in the cardboard box and furiously began sealed it tightly.

He desperately wanted to erase all of it from existence.

All of _this_.

John timidly came down the stairs and over to the detective. He placed a tentative hand on the man's shoulder.

"You okay?"

Sherlock quickly swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath.

"John…" he sighed.

He stood up and took John into his arms, pressing his head against his shoulder.

"Oh God, John," he whispered.

"What?"

The doctor began to nervously tremble.

Mrs. Hudson ran downstairs and stopped when she saw the two men standing in an awkward embrace.

"What happened?" she asked worriedly. "Sherlock?"

_I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry._

He'd touched the same needle that was used to hurt John. His John. Jim had used _that needle _to harm _his John Watson_.

"Sherlock, you're hurting me," John said, squirming in the detective's smothering hug.

"Oh God," Sherlock jumped back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean to hurt you. I would never do so on purpose."

Mrs. Hudson gave the man a queer sort of look, and John rubbed his arm bashfully.

"S'okay. Just… what's in that box?" John's eyes begged Sherlock to tell the truth. Because he trusted him; he trusted him to always tell the truth. "Tell me. Please."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, John. For both our sake, please don't worry."

John tightened his lips and nodded. Somewhere among his clouded thoughts and memories was the knowledge of what was in that package. But he didn't try to dwell on it.

"Okay," he agreed. "Okay. It's okay."

Sherlock was breathing heavily, and his fists were clenching as fast as his chest was moving.

"Sherlock," John said, "It's okay." He swallowed. "I promise. _I'm _okay."

The detective looked into his kind brown eyes, noticing a twinkle that he hadn't seen in quite a few months. It was comforting, and he felt himself calming down.

"Sherlock, please explain to me what's going on!" Mrs. Hudson demanded as she crossed her arms.

John gently grabbed Sherlock's hand, and the detective felt his small button resting in between them.

"Can we please go eat dinner now?" John asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Okay."

* * *

Sherlock woke to John tossing and turning beside him. He had quickly learned how to remedy these fits ever since John had started his therapy. Tiredly, Sherlock sat up and inched John into his lap. For twenty minutes he sat with his friend, petting his hair slowly and reassuringly until the doctor drifted back into a peaceful sleep.

_"My little tweety bird". What does that mean?_

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

_Stop it. Stop thinking about it. Just stay here. Stay with John._

But that note! The first one… he knew it meant-

"Traitor," Sherlock whispered.

A little bird.

'_A little bird told me…'_

That was a saying. An idiom.

Someone was working with Jim. Someone he knew.

"Doctor Mills," he growled.

He quietly strode out over to the dresser and began changing his clothes.

There was hell to pay tonight.

* * *

He easily picked the lock to the lobby. Though he noticed Mycroft's damned CCTV camera pointed in his direction, he simply flipped his middle finger up at it and forced himself inside the building. All was deathly quiet, and Sherlock felt slightly uneasy, even if he was sure that Mills was there. She was the type of woman who felt at home in her office.

He gripped John's Browning tightly and moved to Mills' office in the back, creeping past the secretary's oak wood desk, heels softly thumping on the floor.

_I've got you…_

He reached again for his lock picks in his back pocket at the office door when the lights suddenly turned on in the room.

"You know, Sherlock, breaking and entering is a felony."

He turned around and simultaneously pointed the gun in Winifred's direction, only to notice that she had one as well aimed at his chest. She was dressed in a short black slip, robe, and slippers and held a glass of brandy in her other hand.

"Though this isn't desirable, I must say that this isn't the rudest awakening I've ever received." The doctor lowered her weapon and took a sip of her drink. "Looking for something?"

"I've found it," Sherlock said, the gun's hammer clicking as his thumb effortlessly pressed down upon it.

Winifred's smiled waned quickly.

"I'm sorry?"

"You lying whore." It was certainly a needlessly plain and vulgar insult, but Sherlock felt it the only thing that could match the rage he felt inside of him. "You picked John because Jim told you to."

Mills cocked her head and her brow furrowed intensely.

"I'm not sure I-"

"You've been sending him your notes, telling him about John's progress in healing. He wants to know so that he may figuratively tear away John's stitches in the most painful way possible."

Winifred looked incredibly confused.

"Sherlock, I swear to you that I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

The detective desperately wanted to pull the trigger, but he could see in the therapist's eyes that she was sincere.

This was not the person he was looking for.

Angrily, Sherlock lowered his gun and scratched the back of his neck with the nose of it.

Setting her glass down and tightening the band of her robe, Winifred gestured to her office.

"Care for an early morning session?"

* * *

Doctor Mills took a sip of brandy and set it on the table beside her chair, replacing it with her notebook.

"No," Sherlock told her. "I'm not one of your patients."

With a motion of surrender, the therapist placed the book down beside her and neatly placed her hands on top of her thigh. Her legs were tightly crossed, so as to keep her short nightgown from exposing her underwear.

"You know, Sherlock, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble by going to your brother first."

The detective's piercing stare cut through her like a knife.

"There wasn't any time." His middle finger impatiently rubbed the inner side of his thumb. "How do you know Jim?"

Mills scoffed.

"Referring to the point you made earlier, I am not one of your clients."

"Winifred, you are going to tell me the entire truth, or I will not hesitate to shoot you under the belief that you have betrayed myself, my companion, and the oath of confidentiality that you took as a psychiatrist."

Winifred removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Okay." She replaced her spectacles and nodded, eyes wide open and focused. "Fine." With a sigh, she began. "Five years ago, I was in my second year of postgraduate study at Cambridge University."

"What were you studying?"

"Criminal psychology," she responded. "And, if I do say so myself, I excelled at the subject. I was, as they say, at the top of my class. I was mid-way through my second term when your brother came to meet with an old colleague of his; my professor, Cyril Brook. I was told that they had talked a great deal about me and the dissertation I had written the year prior, and, long story short, Mycroft asked if I would be interested in studying a case for him. He told me that he was very impressed with my breadth of knowledge and opinions on the subject of psychopathy, and he requested that I observe a man by the name of Jim Moriarty. He said he was eager to see what I could do with him."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Why on earth would my brother consult a university student on the corrupt nature of a criminal?"

"I can only assume it was an experiment. Either that or he wished to take me under his wing and make me his pet psychological consultant."

"Having lived with him for an unfortunately lengthy amount of time, I hypothesize it was the latter," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"So I started meeting with Jim," Winifred continued, "Once a week for an hour; our meetings always took place on Sunday. Jim insisted. He never said why, but I was sure it was because church services are held on Sunday."

"He clearly wasn't keeping you away from God."

"It wasn't personal. He just doesn't fancy the idea of respecting a fictional omnipotent being; he prefers to believe himself to be the highest power."

"How shocking." Sherlock adjusted himself in his chair. "Continue."

"An hour a week doesn't seem like much, but it was enough to start affecting me in ways I could have never anticipated."

"Please elaborate."

"It became increasingly difficult to focus on psychoanalysis. After the first meeting, Jim seemed to always find a way to turn the conversation around on me and talk about my own state of mind. A part of me realized exactly what was happening, but it was as if he had thrown me into a trance with his charm and manipulation. I tried to stop engaging him, but I was drawn to him. I didn't want to be; it simply happened."

"He has that way with people like yourself."

The therapist glared at him.

"What convinced me to cease all interaction with him was our twelfth time together. We had had a variety of very intimate discussions at that point, and I almost looked forward to our session. I did look forward to it, in fact. I made a half-hearted attempt at acting professionally, but once again, we got talking. And then something compelled me to stand up from my chair and cross the physical line separating me from the glass that confined him. An impulse… I don't know of what sort."

"Sexual?"

"Perhaps. I have always struggled to understand myself if I'm going to be completely honest." Winifred shook her head. "But I stepped forward; Jim did so too; and we stood at opposite sides of the glass, staring at each other. I noticed a particular deadness in that man's eyes that I have never before seen in a criminal. The moment was spellbinding." She swallowed. "And then I put my hand up to the glass. And he laid his overtop mine. When I realized what I was doing, I stumbled back and demanded that Mycroft release me from the room." She nervously fixed her nightie and took another sip of alcohol. "He didn't object to my desire to stop the sessions."

Sherlock, both intrigued and disgusted, drummed his long fingers on the arm of the chair he sat in.

"So," he said, "This event soured your interest in criminology and you instead pursued a dull career as a trauma therapist."

Winifred sighed.

"The realization that I could so easily be seduced by a man so devious as Jim Moriarty caused me to worry that further involvement in the field would result in injury to my loved ones."

Sherlock noticeably winced at the remark.

"You have loved ones?"

The therapist was visibly irritated.

"My family. I might be at constant odds with them, but I do care about them."

"Your friends as well?"

"Other than Darla, I really don't have any."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Who?"

"My secretary. You haven't learned her name?"

Sherlock's eyes shot wide open and he jumped up.

"Winifred, who has access to your notebook?"

She stood with him, thrown off by the abrupt change of pace.

"Me. It is always safely locked in the drawer of my desk. Only I have the key. Only I know its location."

"You and a nosy secretary."

"What?"

"Darla, Doctor, Darla! Your so-called "friend"."

Winifred vehemently shook her head.

"Darla has no notion of my book's location."

"She might if you one evening drank too much and got careless."

Doctor Mills' face blanched and she pushed her quarter-full glass of brandy away from her.

"I-"

"Where is she?"

"Darla?"

"No, the King of England," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I mean Darla! Where has she gone?"

"On a date," Winifred shrugged. "She said she met a man through an online chat and-" She stopped. "Oh my God."

"Yes?"

"A colleague. A few months ago she received an email from an "old online colleague" of mine. I insisted that she ignore it, but… oh dear God, it was Jim. It was Moriarty. He must have-" She frantically picked up her black notebook and threw it open. "Sherlock, this isn't my notebook," she said, her voice but a mere whisper. "She took mine. She's been posing as me. Jim's been flirting with her and so she's pretending to be me. She's taking my notebook to him."

Sherlock gripped his hair tightly and took a deep breath.

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No," Winifred stated, having gone completely rigid. "If we break into her computer we could find something."

"I doubt you know her password."

"No, I don't. But I have a few guesses."

Fortunately, two was enough. It saved Sherlock the effort of time-consuming deduction. Rifling through email after email led them both to discover a large compilation of old messages spanning over a few months. They saw professional discussions that were intentionally set up by the sender (presumably Jim) to be easy for anyone who wasn't an expert in the general field of psychology; a veritable fly trap for a gullible and single woman who wasn't averse to playing pretend. Before finding what they were looking for (the address of the café in which the two "lovers" had met that night) they were forced to navigate through painfully flirtatious exchanges and pet names...

_Boring boring boring…_

John.

_John._

All references to John's "condition"; his "questionable emotional stability" and "terrible mental trauma".

How dare this…

_Harlot!_

...woman practice such indiscretion! More importantly, how dare this damned doctor trust such a moron!

"You are clearly an incredibly insecure person," Sherlock sneered at the doctor beside him. "You would rather blindly assume a pre-existing friend's intellectual capability than potentially lose their companionship." He stood up and flipped up his coat collar. "This is why I'm cautious in trust; I manage to avoid such betrayal."

Winifred gripped his arm tightly, her manicured nails feeling as if they might tear through the fabric.

"It's not her fault," she said. "She's lost everyone in her life, Sherlock. I'm perhaps all she has. We're alike in that."

Sherlock seemed to let these words fly out the other ear; his hands began to tremble.

"John," he choked out. "I need to go home to John."

"I'll contact your brother," Winifred said, having already pulled out her mobile. "I never call him. He's sure to answer."

_No time. I must get to him before Jim does._

"Try to text Darla," Sherlock said as he started for the door.

"Sherlock, it's 2:30 in the morning. She's a veritable Rip Van Winkle."

"What?"

Winifred shook her head.

"Forget it. She won't respond."

"Just do it."

Before the doctor could stop him, Sherlock was already out the door looking for a taxi.

* * *

Desperately, Sherlock tried getting his brother on the phone while concurrently attempting to locate a cab. Meanwhile, Winifred clutched her robe tightly to her chest, despite ensured security from its knotted belt.

"Sherlock," she said, "I'll get Mycroft on the phone. You find a cab."

The detective reluctantly left his female companion to her own devices and ran down the street and around the corner.

_John, John, John… please, be okay. Let him be sleeping safely at home._

Who was he begging?

To his relief, there was a cab sitting on the opposite side of the road. Its light was off, and the driver was smoking a cigarette while sleepily sipping what Sherlock could only assume was a cheap cup of coffee.

"Hey!" the detective shouted, waving his arm. He dashed over to the parked car and knocked on the window.

The driver waved him off and pointed at the roof, communicating to him that the light was, in fact, off.

"I need a ride to Baker Street!" Sherlock yelled.

The driver turned on the car's ignition and rolled down the window.

"I am not in service at the moment," he huffed. "Try down aways."

Sherlock decided that pleading eyes were desperately needed. It wasn't as if he needed to force them.

"Please," he implored him, "I need a lift to Baker Street."

The driver began shaking his head when he took notice of Winifred quickly running up behind Sherlock.

"No he doesn't," she said. "We need a ride to Chelsea." Before Sherlock could question her, she shoved her mobile into his hand. "Your brother," she said.

The cabbie took a moment to look at her, taking in the sight of her short lingerie-esque gown, robe, and slippers and softly nickered.

"Get in," he sighed.

With an acknowledging glance at the therapist beside him, he opened the back door and slid in, Winifred following him and shutting it behind them.

"You're going to the Chelsea district then?" the cabbie asked the woman as he began moving the car away from the curb. "Anywhere, um…" he looked at Winifred's' clothing again, "...special?"

While she gave him the address, Sherlock put the phone to his ear and was immediately met with an exasperated utterance of his name.

*"_Sherlock-"*_

"Mycroft shut up! The cameras in our flat: check them."

Mycroft responded first with an irritated grunt.

*"_I have. John is fast asleep."*_

"Are you sure? Have you examined him thoroughly? Is he _breathing_?"

*"_Yes, Sherlock. He is perfectly fine. I have been keeping a constant watch on the both of you if that is of any comfort to you."*_

Sherlock breathed an immense sigh of selfies and shut his eyes as he did so.

"How much do you know about our current situation?"

*"_Doctor Mills has told me that you broke into her office and threatened her with a gun. Of course, the break-in was clearly recorded on the camera observing you, Sherlock. Thank you for that wonderfully profane gesture, by the way. And she also told me that you've both got a lead on Moriarty."*_

"How did that lead escape _you_?"

*"_We are a lawful government, Sherlock. We can't monitor email exchanges. That would violate public privacy."*_

"And observing their every movement through thousands of cameras on the street doesn't?"

The detective's brother groaned.

*"_So you're on your way to Chelsea, I hear. Is that where you have both decided Moriarty's hidden?"*_

"Doctor Mills' secretary lives in a flat there," said Sherlock, the realisation hitting him in that singular moment. He looked at Mills who nodded solemnly. "Jim has situated himself there for me to find him."

Mycroft's breath hitched.

*"_Sherlock, wait for backup. I'll send Lestrade and my own men to your location."*_

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said. "Focus on John. Keep him under your watchful eye. Make sure that he is safe."

*"_Certainly, brother dear. I wouldn't dream of disappointing you."*_

"Your sarcasm has been noted and subsequently unappreciated."

*"_I wish you the best of luck, brother."* _Mycroft sighed. *_"Do be careful. John would prefer that you stay alive, I'm sure."*_

"You are indifferent to my survival, I presume?"

*"_You're trying to coax me into admitting something with that tone. It won't work. Goodbye, Sherlock. And again: good luck."*_

Again, Mycroft was the first to hang up, and Sherlock handed the phone back to his companion.

"How are you feeling?" Winifred asked, her voice sounding hoarse.

"I'm not quite sure. To quote you, I've always struggled to understand myself."

The therapist allowed herself a small smile, but her wringing hands detracted from its sincerity.

"I do hope for your sake that Darla is alive," Sherlock said.

"If she isn't, do you plan to kill me?" Winifred dryly quipped.

"If she isn't, I anticipate observing your emotional ruin." Sherlock rubbed his neck. "I would hate to see an intelligent woman such as yourself be destroyed by such a terrible instance."

Mills laughed.

"Intelligent? I allowed _this _to happen. Apparently, I've got two brain cells: one is in a wheelchair and the other is pushing. I deserve to have my license revoked, or at most killed."

"That isn't true. I do still find you to be beneath me in respect to your intellectual capacity and at times intolerable; the latter is true in this moment, your secrecy having only just been dissolved an hour ago. And perhaps you would be tempted to write in your little black book that I still have trust issues." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure it isn't just John's progress you've been taking note of."

Winifred looked shamefully down at the floor of the cab, eyes fixating on the toes of her slippers.

"So I don't trust you. Perhaps I never will. But I find you to be an insightful psychiatrist, and it would be a woeful thing for your wisdom to be snuffed out like candle light by the death of a woman you so dearly care for. What you find appealing about her is beyond my understanding, but I imagine that she is to you what John is to me."

"A lifeline?"

Sherlock looked out his window.

"That is one word one could use to identify it, yes."

Both sat in an awkward silence, both ruminating on their recent conversation and restlessly anticipating the events that were inevitably about to unfold. The cabbie, meanwhile, drove onward to the Chelsea district, hoping that his payment would ultimately make wading through the city's late-night traffic worth it.

London was an absolute nightmare.

* * *

Sherlock was rarely thrown into a position of being the sluggish one, but tonight he fell behind Winifred. It seemed as if reaching the apartment complex in which her friend lived was enough to trigger an emotionally desperate response to the danger said woman had unknowingly put herself in. The detective was quite thankful that he managed to reach the door before it had completely shut; Winifred was, after all, the only person he knew with a key.

"Doctor Mills!" he cried, hardly caring if other residents were woken. "Winifred!" He cursed and continued to climb the stairs.

Arriving on the third floor, he heard the therapist's frantic knocking on Darla's door, calling her friend's name.

"Please, Darla" she begged. "Please!"

After what seemed like an eternity, a woman with tousled bed hair pulled open the door. She squinted through her tired eyes.

"What the hell do you want at this hour, Freddie?"

It was clear that both therapist and detective were not expecting the secretary to answer the door. Alive and well. Nevertheless, Winifred grabbed her by the shoulders and began checking her over.

"Are you alright?"

Darla, extremely disgruntled, shoved off her friend and crossed her arms.

"Freddie, what the hell are you doing here?" she whispered angrily. "It is 3:00 in the morning and you're…" she rubbed one eye, "Why are you in your nightie?"

Winifred brushed off the question.

"Is there a man in your flat right now?"

"That's not-"

"Tell me!"

Darla scratched her head when she spotted Sherlock.

"What is Mister Holmes doing here?"

"You and I need to leave now. Grab my notebook and come downstairs with me."

Darla blushed.

"How did you know that I have your notebook?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, there is an extremely dangerous man in your flat right now. And he knows you aren't me."

Darla's face only became redder.

"I don't-"

"Darla, come on!" Winifred took her friend's arm and pulled her into the hallway, giving Sherlock room to go into the flat and poke around.

"Winnie, there is no one in my flat!" Darla hissed.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"What?"

"I… I told Peter the truth before anything could happen. I felt so terrible about lying to the both of you." Darla nervously twisted the ends of her hair.

"That wasn't Peter Whitfield, Darla. There is no such person as Peter Whitfield," Doctor Mills informed her.

"What?"

"There's only Jim Moriarty," Sherlock interjected.

Darla clasped her hand over her mouth and choked.

"No," she said. "Please tell me-"

"You've just put sensitive information into the hands of a madman for the sake of wetting your sex-hungry beak," Sherlock sneered. "I came here to put a bullet in Moriarty's head, but yours will suffice."

Winifred placed herself in front of her friend, arms spanning out to their full length.

"Sherlock, no!" she shouted.

The detective clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

"I was being facetious."

"It's hard to tell with you sometimes, your emotions are so unpredictable." The therapist let out a relieved rush of air and placed her bony hand on Darla's shoulder. "Did you give him the notebook?"

The young secretary was wiping her eyes furiously as she tried to keep her tears at bay; she was terribly embarrassed and frightened.

_Good._

"No," she swallowed. "But I did let him see it."

"How much?" Sherlock approached her like a predator. "How much did you let him see?"

"I-"

"Now!"

"All of it!" Darla sobbed. "I let him see everything. He… he took some notes."

Sherlock thrust his hands upon his face and kicked the door frame with the side of his foot.

"Sherlock-" Winifred tried in vain to calm him down, but his rationality had surrendered itself to his thirst for revenge.

"Where did he go?" the detective spat out. "Did he say?"

"H-he said…" Darla shook as she struggled to breathe.

"Out with it."

She wiped her nose.

"Something about a d-delivery, I think?"

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock growled, shuddering at the recent memory of 'Mr. Pointy'. "Just that? Just a delivery?"

"That's all h-he said."

"Useless," Sherlock muttered. "Winifred, perhaps it would be best if you were to find a friend whose primary response to pressure isn't incapacitating crying."

"Sherlock, for God's sake," Mills snapped. "I know that you're angry right now, but you have got to keep it together. For John."

Sherlock felt his spine tingle at the mention of the good doctor's name.

"Yes," he relented. "For John."

"It's almost dawn. I suggest you return home and go to bed. There isn't much else you can do now." Doctor Mills ushered her companion inside the flat. "I'm going to call her down."

After the door was shut in his face, the detective felt his wall begun to crumble.

_I was so close. I was so, so close. Practically two steps away from catching him and I let him slip through my fingers._

He stumbled down the stairs, the knot in his throat growing to a suffocating size.

_I'll never find him. He'll never let me. John… I'm so sorry, John. Oh God… John…_

There wasn't going to be any retribution tonight. Perhaps not ever. And Sherlock had to go home to his friend- so fragile and so apprehensive -and try to carry on.

More of those frustrated and unpleasant tears began to stain his cheeks as he walked out the door into the frigid air.

The other residents, he had failed to notice, still slept soundly in their beds despite the ruckus he had caused.

* * *

"Where'd you go?"

Sherlock froze. He was hardly anticipating John being awake when he snuck in. He expressed this surprise with a whispered: "Good morning."

He gathered the strength to move again and sat down on the bed beside his flatmate.

"I'm sorry. I had an emergency." He brought his legs up to stretch out on the soft mattress and laid a hand on top of John's head. "I'm here now."

"What emergency?" John asked.

He'd clearly been having an anxiety attack, given the sweat on his forehead and his quavering voice.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock lied.

"Lestrade needed me for a case."

"Lestrade?" It had been ages since John had spoken to the inspector, and so the name was said with a particular distance; it was as if John was trying to recall memories of the mentioned man. "Oh. What case?"

Sherlock noticed that his friend's knuckles had turned white from the grip on what he could only assume was his coat button. He sighed and placed his hand overtop John's.

"Something silly. If you will recall, the inspector is not particularly skilled at handling even the most trivial of incidents."

"Hm." John cleared his throat in an attempt to sound much stronger than he was. "Promise you aren't lying to me."

Sherlock's fingers pressed into John's hand.

"You can trust me, John," he said. "Now, won't you go to sleep? I won't leave you."

He felt his eyelids beginning to droop, the exhaustion of crying and of running around catching up to him quickly. Without another word, he and his partner fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

"You've already been drinking tonight," Darla remarked. "Maybe you should lay off of the wine."

Winifred simply clinked her glass against her friend's and began sipping, red wine washing over her lips and painting her already coffee-stained teeth.

"I won't be prepared to speak to him without having ingested some alcohol. I might light a cigarette or two in order to keep myself calm."

"Freddie, no. My neighbors have already willingly endured that dreadful shouting match. To force them to accept the inhalation of your second-hand smoke would be crossing a line."

"Oh, send them gift baskets," the therapist scoffed. "They already weren't going to be satisfied with your 'thanks'. What's a little smoke?"

The assistant remained adamant.

"No."

"Fine." Winifred tapped her fingernail on the glass so that the sound was the only noise in the room before Darla spoke again.

"I really hope this worked," Darla sighed, swishing her wine around in her glass, watching as it left droplets of grape-red liquid upon the sides. "He really was frightening."

"Who? Sherlock or Jim? Because in my opinion, they're both incredibly caustic when it comes to their emotions."

Darla sniffed and scratched her scalp.

"Either." She let out a shaky sigh. "I feel terrible."

"You did wonderfully for the job you were given," Mills said, sitting down beside her. "I'm sorry you were made a part of this."

"It was scary, but it was exciting." Darla allowed herself to smile. "I've never talked to a real criminal before. Not like you."

Winifred laughed once- it was a quiet and dry laugh.

"You did bring my notebook back?"

Darla nodded wordlessly and handed her partner the notorious black book. It looked practically untouched.

"Jim was really convincing. I thought at first I'd really thrown the whole operation; he looked like a professor. Spoke like one too."

Winifred's phone began to ring and she wasted no time in answering the call.

"Well, I certainly hope this all paid off in the end," she spat into the phone. "Sherlock left a mess and Darla's currently quaking in her boots."

*"_He is in custody, Doctor Mills. I am quite relieved this was as successful as it turned out to be." _Mycroft could be heard shifting some papers around. _"You must have been incredibly convincing to have fooled my brother."*_

"I apparently was." Winifred took an angry sip of wine. "But not gladly so. No wonder the man has trust issues, Mycroft. You spend most of your time lying to him."

*"_And now you've been a part of that routine. Congratulations." _Mycroft yawned. _"Do give Darla my thanks. She did marvellous work. And I am not one to simply give compliments away."*_

"She'll be honoured, I'm sure." Winifred raised an eyebrow. "So what? The plan now is to ship Jim off to Serbia and hope that that's where his reign of terror ends?"

*"_All of that carried out with careful supervision and following strict procedures."*_

"It won't end. You'd be stupid to think that it will. Jim is just playing a game of hide-and-seek with you. You let him run and counted to ten, he hid for a while, and then you found him. Now it's his turn to count to ten. Serbia is simply the corner he's facing while you run and hide."

Mycroft sat for a moment, leaving the air tense with worry and frustration.

*"_It is what it is,"* _the man finally said. *_"If a game is what he wants to play, then I will play it as long as I possibly can."*_

"Sherlock's playing too."

*"_This round will offer him some respite while he tends to the needs of both himself and Doctor Watson."*_

"Sherlock won't want to rest until he's found where Jim is."

*"_He'll have to."*_

"He will eventually find out the truth, and I'll be the one he takes his frustration out on."

*"_I am aware of that inevitability, and I promise you that I won't let him get carried away. As long as you practice discretion, we can delay that event's happening."*_

Winifred clutched her glass tightly.

"I'm not sure if I can continue to see him and John with the burden of this secret, Mycroft. I've kept enough from them already. So to advocate trust seems…" She swallowed. "Dreadfully ironic."

Mycroft sniffed.

*"_You've done enough. The choice is up to you now, whether or not you wish to continue being their therapist."*_

The doctor set her wine glass on the wooden coffee table and stood up from the sofa, leaving the stiff figure of her friend who sat with bated breath as she strained to listen to the conversation.

"And I am choosing the 'not'." She turned to Darla. "And I think we're quite finished with you. And London as a whole, really. We might give France a try for a while."

*"_I will finance your emigration, if you would like me to."*_

"No. After this conversation, I don't ever wish to speak to you again." She seemed to be formulating a plan already. "I'll contact Tabatha and let her know where I'm going."

*"_I understand."*_

While trying to come to a tacit understanding through eye contact with Darla- who was quite alarmed at the sudden mention of uprooting -the therapist thought of Mycroft's poor brother and felt her heart ache.

"This operation has likely done more harm than good as far as Sherlock's emotional stability is concerned," she lamented.

Mycroft's hesitated before responding.

*"_Sacrifices do sometimes need to be made."*_

Mills remained on the line with the elder Holmes brother as she thought some more, and she felt her palms become clammy with sweat as puzzle pieces began to fit into place.

"Mycroft," she whispered, "Please tell me that John's abduction was not a part of your scheme to find Moriarty."

The man hung up with a hasty *_"Goodbye and good luck"* _before another word was said regarding the matter.

And all Winifred could do was angrily throw her phone against the back seat cushion of Darla's sofa.

* * *

Months passed by slowly, and Sherlock never received another word from either John's therapist or her dreadful secretary. He could only assume that their arrangement had made things particularly awkward and that Winifred had decidedly moved on. Despite a lack of professional help, Sherlock still did his best to work with John, helping him to communicate and to become less dependent on the detective's presence; the button did seem to help tremendously with the latter.

John returned to a healthy weight, the colour had returned to his cheeks, and he was laughing and talking more often than he ever had before. The track marks on his arm faded away with the needle in the box- when Sherlock burned the parcel, it was as if the syringe had never existed at all.

There had been no word from Moriarty, despite the confirmation that he had everything he could possibly need or want on not only John, but also Sherlock (the detective assumed, given Mills' nosy nature). And despite his desire for revenge, Sherlock felt oddly at peace with the fact that for now both he and John- especially John -were safe.

He would not let Moriarty get far if he were to show his face in the future.

_For now, there is nothing I can do. Be calm. Stay here. Stay strong. For John._

_For John._

It was new chapter; a fresh start for both himself and the former soldier.

And for once, it seemed that everything was going to be okay.

Christmas came around, and John requested a small party.

"Are you sure?"

The doctor nodded, filling in the answer to another hint of his crossword- it was a hobby he had taken up in order to keep his hands and mind occupied.

"If you wouldn't mind." John set down the paper and picked up his cup of tea. He stood up and walked over to the doorway to the kitchen and leaned on its frame. "It's just been a long time since I saw everyone together, you know?"

"Right." Sherlock, having been tuning his violin, set his instrument back in its case and turned around to face his friend. "Are you quite sure that the experience won't be overwhelming?"

"My sister might like to see me. Mike too."

"Perhaps a card…"

"Are you nervous about having people here?" John asked with a solemn smile.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head.

"I'm nervous for your sake."

"Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. H, Harry, Mike…" John took another sip of tea and furrowed his brow in thought. "Your brother, right?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"And we should invite Doctor Mills."

Sherlock was thrown off by the sudden mention of the name.

"It didn't occur to me that you might remember her, it's been so long."

John chuckled.

"I might have been in a bad place, but I can remember my bloody therapist's name."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "Why do you want to invite her?"

"Because she helped me. She helped _us_." John licked his lips and sighed. "Dunno. I just think she would appreciate an invitation. We never thanked her."

"She's a therapist. She doesn't need to be thanked."

"Without her, Sherlock, I wouldn't have the confidence to talk to you right now. I might still shake every now and then. And sure, the nightmares haven't completely disappeared. But she helped me jump an enormous hurdle that even you- in all your Sherlockian glory -could not have pulled me over." John smiled. "That's not to say that you haven't been the one holding my hand this whole time. I just think it good to acknowledge a job well-done."

Sherlock stared at his doctor, head slightly cocked to the right and lips curled into a bemused smile; his eyes expressed both uncertainty and agreement. The detective, however, was desperate to continue to act stubbornly.

"Mycroft told me she relocated to another country in search of a change of scenery. Besides, we haven't talked with her in a long time. I doubt she even remembers you."

"I know she remembers me."

"How?"

"Because I'm Sherlock Holmes' best friend."

Sherlock would have tried to debate him on this particular point, but he couldn't deny the truth.

John was only relevant because of him.

"Well," the detective said, looking for a return to the initial discussion, "you're sure you would like to host a Christmas Eve celebration?"

John grinned.

"Yes."

And he returned to the kitchen to finish both his tea and the daily crossword. Sherlock, meanwhile, felt a knot in his stomach as he picked his violin up again. The poor thing was dusty as all hell, having been sitting idle for nearly a year- he never had the urge to play until John asked him to only half an hour earlier.

"Any preference of song?" Sherlock asked. "Christmas or otherwise?"

John narrowed his eyes at the clue in front of him and racked his brain for the response.

"How about," he said distractedly, "Oh, I don't know. You pick. When you pick it always sounds better."

Sherlock smirked.

"Very well."

He recalled a favourite of John's and decided that it would be most appropriate.

The bow felt natural balanced at the tips of his long, skeletal fingers, and the motion of playing felt all the more so to his spirit.

"Is that, um…" John snapped his fingers as if the action would result in the immediate recollection of the song's name. "The Little Drummer Boy?"

Sherlock paused to nod and then resumed the tune.

John sat still for a while and listened, wearing a peaceful expression with lightly closed eyes. As Sherlock finished, the doctor leaned back and quietly sighed- it was a delicate and relaxed release of air. He picked up the crossword again and tightened his lips at it.

"Twelve letters; repose," he read.

Sherlock brought the bow down to his side and took a deep breath.

"'Tranquillity'."

* * *

**Epilogue**

* * *

A woman with blonde hair cut to the shoulders slowly drank her cup of coffee, her maroon lipstick staining the rim of the shallow mug. She took notes in a sleek black notebook as she read through the various articles bookmarked on her laptop computer. Her bony hands busied themselves- one handled the pen, the other fidgeted with the handle of the coffee cup. And when the waiter passed by her with a cart of sweet pastries, she raised her idle index finger and requested a slice of lemon pound cake en français. The cake and the coffee seemed unaffected by the mild autumn weather, and it seemed that she could spend forever seated at that tiny sky-blue table, shields from the clouded rays of the golden afternoon sun. Yet a woman waited for her at home with an eager appetite for kisses and for companionship; it was only this that motivated her to complete her day's work and hurry back to the small apartment on La Rue de Turenne. Her sharp grey eyes were fixed on her computer like an owl's on its prey, and a smile played on her thin lips. She felt positively serene.

Her laptop, however, was abruptly closed by a person who had seated himself across from her, and her gaze focused on him.

Jaw hanging slightly open and pupils having practically dilated to the size of her irises, she stared at him in awe as he helped himself to a piece of her lemon cake.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Mills. I do hope I haven't interrupted anything important. In case your vacation made you forgetful, my name is Sherlock Holmes." The detective leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. "I simply had a few burning questions that I need answered. And you will give me answers."

He gave her a sarcastic sort of smile, his lips gnarled in such a way that the corners of his mouth turned down and his pink lips turned white from their compression.

"Can I trust you to do that for me?"

The End


End file.
